Breathing's Just A Rhythm
by MirabileLectu
Summary: After failing his CPL exam for the fifth time, Martin is ready to give up. But a young doctor is determined to help him put his life back together and refuses to give up on him. Sherlock crossover. Chapter 12/12
1. Chapter 1

**A/N**: Major warning for suicidal thoughts and attempted suicide of a main character below.

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><p>The fifth time that Martin failed his CPL exam, he tried to kill himself.<p>

It had seemed a reasonable thing to do, at the time. It wasn't like he was ever going to become a proper pilot anyway, not at this rate. Proper pilots didn't fail the same bloody exam six times even when they knew all the answers and could recite the textbook backwards and forwards. Proper pilots didn't get flustered at the first sign of trouble or panic when a perfectly routine alarm light went off. Proper pilots didn't fail at the only thing that had ever mattered to them, five times over. Wishing and wanting would never get him where he wanted to be, no matter how hard he tried. That much was obvious now.

He was numb now as he sat in his tiny attic room, numb past the point of tears or disbelief or shock. There had been plenty of tears after the exam when he had huddled in the back of his van, hiding from anyone who could have seen his shame as he rocked back and forth and sobbed into his jacket. He had cried until his sides ached, his eyes burned, and his throat closed. He had cried great, wracking, heaving sobs that shook his thin frame until he thought his tears would rattle him apart. He had cried for everything he wanted to be, everything he could never be, everything he would never have, until there were no more tears left. Nothing left but the emptiness inside of him and the vicious whisper in his head always there to remind him that he would never be anything worthwhile.

Driving home and stumbling up the stairs to his room had been a blur. A blur, except for the brief flash of sound and light and color from the rooms of the students downstairs as they celebrated the end of term and the successful completion of their exams with a loud and raucous party. _Of course they get to have a party_ Martin thought bitterly as he shuffled into his dark and tiny room with head bowed and shoulders slumped. _They're young, they're successful, they have futures. They're going to be _somebody_. Not like me. Nothing like me._ He had been in this damned attic for three years now, far longer than he had ever planned. God, his dreams had been so big when he moved in here. He'd thought this would all be temporary, that he would breeze through his exam on the first try and get picked up by Air England or some other big airline. He'd thought that by now he would be successful, be wealthy, be _happy_. But he was none of those things. He was exactly where had been when he'd moved out of his parents' house, exactly where they had predicted he'd end up. Broke, miserable, and alone.

His eyes began to burn once more as he collapsed in the rickety chair that served as both kitchen chair and the only seat in the room besides his tiny cot. _Why can't I just pull myself together? I know the material, I _know _it! I know it better than the examiner, why can't I just stay calm enough to pass the bloody test?_ The thoughts were beginning to crowd together in his head, piling up on each other, spinning out of control. He felt dizzy, sick with desperation and despair and hatred for the mess that was his entire life. A look around the room to steady himself only made it worse. This place was the only place he could call his own because it was the only thing he could afford, and it was terrible. He hated it. It was small, cramped, dark, and depressing. A tiny little attic, probably not even meant for human habitation, full of drafts with barely enough room for him to move about comfortably. Hysterical laughter bubbled up inside of him as he looked around, scraping out of a throat rubbed entirely raw from crying. It was absurd, that he should live like this. That he should scrimp and save for months to afford one single test, living on a single meal a day and working himself to the bone at a horrendous job as a dish-washer, all to fail. To blow all of that money in one day, on one test, leaving him with nothing but an empty wallet and an emptier life. Life shouldn't be lived like this.

_I shouldn't live like this_. The thought seemed to come out of nowhere, and yet it was if he had known it all along. As if it had been lurking in the back of his mind all this time, waiting for the right moment to strike. _I'll never succeed. I'll just keep failing, and failing, and failing. I can't do this anymore. I should just give up and save myself the trouble._

And there it was. The thought he had been avoiding. The one he had kept pushed down inside himself for so long, diligently ignoring it and pretending it didn't exist in hopes that it would disappear. But it never had disappeared, no matter how carefully he pretended it didn't exist. It was too late now, too late to pretend that he hadn't thought about it. About ending the charade, about no longer pretending that his life was worth living. About giving up.

It seemed like his entire life had been an exercise in not giving up when he really should, in persevering against impossible odds and ridiculous circumstances long after it was reasonable. His entire life had been a struggle, a constant battle against his own personal failings that seemed t o work against him at every turn. He It wasn't _fair_ that he should try so hard and get so little. Other people had everything handed to them: good looks, natural charm, cool dispositions. And here he was, a scrawny, ginger, nervous git who couldn't string together a coherent sentence to save his life. Literally.

_It's not like I'll be giving up anything worth having _he thought viciously as he looked around the room once more. _No friends, no job worth having, no flat worth living in, hell I don't even have any food in my cupboards to go bad. I don't think anyone will even notice. _That was the worst part, the thought that stuck in his brain and made him feel like he had no other choice. There was no one to notice, no one who would actually care if he ended this right now. _It might even be a relief for my family. They could finally give up on pretending like I've ever been anything but a disappointment._

A disappointment was all he had ever been, really. The last child, the unwanted child, the one who didn't fit in with the rest of his family. Simon and Caitlin, they had always been the favored children. The ones who did their father proud, the ones who were tall and beautiful and clever and ambitious within reason. They had excelled in school, earning top marks, winning trophies and prizes and friends, all while he was left alone, struggling just to get by with his dreams in the sky. He'd never had friends. He'd never been top of his class. Hell, he'd been lucky to be in the middle of his class. That was always who he'd been, who he'd always be. Martin Crieff, average to the bone with dreams far too big for him.

Even now as he stared emptily at the surface of his kitchen table, he could hear his father's disappointed words still echoing as if they had been spoken moments ago. "You've got to _do_ something with your life, Martin! You'll never get anywhere with your head in the clouds like that, you've got to be realistic. I know you want to be a pilot for some bloody stupid reason, but you've got to accept that it's never going to happen, lad. You're just not cut out for it." The gruff words hurt just as much now as they had when they were spoken, as they had every time his father had told him to stop dreaming and come back down to earth. But how could he ever stop dreaming? Flying was all he had ever wanted, all he could ever see himself being happy doing. Other jobs could never possibly match up, could never make him happy the way he knew flying someday would. He had tried to tell his father this, tried to explain_ why_ he struggled every day for something he might never achieve. But the words never came. He tried, but just like everything else in his life his voice failed him and left him stuttering and ashamed in the face of his father's disappointment.

Well, time to finally prove his father right. Time to finally complete something, even if it was the last thing he ever did. The room spun and tilted as he stood suddenly, determined to finally do something worthwhile before he lost his nerve. Time seemed to be rushing and leaping past faster than he could possibly manage, and yet he felt as though he were frozen in place as he walked over to the kitchen and pulled out the only knife he owned. It was a dull, cheap thing he had bought years ago and never been able to replace, but it would have to do. He had no other options.

Time jumped, lurching forward once more, and he was seated back at the kitchen table, staring at the knife. Now that it came to it, he was afraid. He was more afraid than he had ever been in his entire miserable, worthless life, so afraid that his hands trembled with terror as he reached for the handle of the knife. But there was nothing for it now that he had started, no other choice left for him to make. This was what his life had come to, and this was all he had left. So he picked up the knife, and with shaking hand brought it down across the delicate skin of his left wrist.

He'd thought that it would be quick.

It wasn't.

The knife was a jagged flash of pain across his wrist, burning brighter and sharper than anything he had ever felt before. His vision blurred and the knife clattered to the floor as he stared at the sudden bloom of bright red blood against his pale skin, spilling and pouring out of him faster than he had expected and leaving a trail of warmth as it ran down his arm. Funny. He'd never thought about that before, how warm blood was. The wound was not nearly as neat and clean as he had intended it to be – the shaking of his hand as he held the knife meant that there was a small false start cut followed by an uneven line across his wrist that mocked him with its shakiness. The knife had hardly even been sharp, leaving a wound nothing like the lovely straight line he had imagined. No, instead it was jagged, uneven, dirty, horrible. It shouldn't be like this. He didn't want it to be like this. He stood up, desperate to find something else, to fix this so he could at least do it properly. But he had lost too much blood, was too weak already. He crashed down to the floor, pulling the table down with him and hitting his head on the hard floor with a sickening crack. As he lost consciousness and the world faded to black, his last thought was quiet and resigned. _Of course I can't even kill myself properly._

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><p>The world had dissolved into fragments of sensation, running and blurring together as he drifted lost and alone. Only a few broke through the haze, sharp and painful.<p>

Shouting.

Sirens.

Voices speaking urgently above him.

A blur of lights flashing quickly overhead.

Pain.

Searing flashing pain blooming bright behind his eyes growing spreading _consuming._

A moan, possibly his own.

Sweet release.

Darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

Dr. John Watson paused for a moment to collect himself in the hallway before he entered the room of the next stop on his mid-morning rounds. He checked his clipboard again just to be sure, but he knew already what patient was in this room, and with a guilty feeling that made him nearly sick he knew that he was not looking forward to this encounter. The young man had been rushed into the A&E late last night with severe blood loss from a jagged cut on his wrist and a moderate concussion from where he had fallen onto floor after losing consciousness. He had been found unconscious in a pool of his own blood by some of the students who lived below him that had become alarmed after hearing a large crash from his flat. When one of the more worried ones had gone up to check on him, she was greeted by silence, a locked door, and a slow seep of blood from underneath the door frame. The poor thing had nearly fainted herself, but thankfully had managed to keep herself together enough to call 999 and have the paramedics break down his door. By the time they arrived and stabilized him he had lost a truly dangerous amount of blood, so much so that he had been nearly at death's door by the time had reached the hospital.

No one knew what had happened for sure, of course. With no witnesses at the scene it was impossible to know the true cause of the man's injuries until he came to, but Dr. Watson had been able to guess the moment he had seen the description of the wound on the man's arm. It didn't take a genius to put two and two together when a young man was rushed to the emergency room with a jagged cut across his wrist caused by a dull kitchen knife. He had seen more cases like this than he cared to remember, and every one had proven to be more heart-breaking than the last. There was nothing worse than watching your patients self-destruct before your eyes while you stood by as a helpless bystander, wishing desperately to help them and utterly unable to do anything of value. Maybe it made him a terrible doctor, but John was not keen on having it happen again.

He sighed gently and gave himself a quick mental shake before pushing the door open. _Pull yourself together, Watson. He's just another patient, and he needs your help. You can do this_. The door swung open quietly, revealing a clean, if slightly cramped room brightly lit by the morning sun streaming cheerily in through the blinds. There was only the one occupant at the moment, the other patient having been discharged earlier that morning under surprisingly happy circumstances. The woman had not been John's patient, but his colleague Dr. Blair had been thrilled at her speedy recovery and happy endings like those were to be treasured when faced with so much pain and sorrow. John could only pray that the same would occur for the man sleeping under heavy sedation in the bed next to the window, but he had his doubts. That was a horrible thing for a doctor to think, of course. But there were only so many times you could get your hopes up in vain without becoming the tiniest bit jaded.

He looked terrible, even considering the circumstances. He was a small man to begin with, but John could tell from one glace that he was horrendously undernourished and underweight as a consequence. His face was pale and drawn, cheekbones standing out sharply underneath an unruly mop of startlingly red curls that only served to emphasize how wan he truly was. While it was true that the blood loss explained away much of his lack of color, it was clear that this had not been a healthy man even before the injury that landed him in the hospital with tubes coming out of his arms. The wound in question had been neatly bandaged by the nurses in the A&E, leaving his left wrist and forearm swaddled in white gauze, but there was already a hint of red bleeding through the fabric in a telltale line across his wrist. John sighed and shook his head gently as he went over to retrieve the patient's chart, making a mental note to change the bandage as soon as he could. It was technically something that the nurses typically did, but he was here already and the overworked nurses had enough on their hands. He could take five minutes to make sure this poor man had a clean bandage.

A quick glance-over of the man's chart revealed his name to be Martin Crieff, a twenty-four year old with no previous medical issues or history of mental problems to serve as warning signs for this sort of problem. Just as John had suspected, he was drastically underweight even for a man of his small stature, but that was nothing that regular meals couldn't fix. It was worrying to see though, especially considering the circumstances. John prayed silently that there was a reasonable explanation for why Martin was so underweight, although to be quite honest there weren't many reasons for Martin to be so thin that would satisfy him. He could only hope that it wasn't an indicator of another very serious problem, one that could possibly explain why an otherwise healthy young man had taken a knife to his own wrist.

After checking Martin's chart one last time, John gently put the clipboard back in its place at the foot of the bed and walked quietly over to Martin's side. The man was still under fairly heavy sedation, but the substantial amount of blood he had lost while waiting for the paramedics to arrive meant that his body badly needed to rest and recover from the trauma. _The poor fellow could use a good sleep anyway, even without the blood loss,_ John thought to himself as he observed the unhealthy pallor of his cheeks and the circles under his eyes so deep they appeared to be bruises standing out livid on pale skin. _What on earth has he been doing to himself?_ With a final shake of his head he began to gently unwind the bloody bandage, his disquiet only deepening when he saw the state of the wound beneath.

Even after being cleaned and treated with great care by the nurses in the A&E, the cut was still horrifying to look at. It transected nearly his entire wrist, the skin torn brutally by the dull edge of the knife he had used. Blood oozed sluggishly out around the stitches to soak the bandage and trickle onto the skin around the cut, staining white skin with dark, angry crimson. There was no longer any question in John's mind what had caused this wound. He had seen far too many like it, and there was no mistaking the distinctive false start cut that came from a shaking hand and the jagged, uneven line across the veins in the wrist made by a person both determined and afraid. It was deep cut despite the obvious hesitation and uncertainty behind the action, and John could only be thankful that Martin had made the common mistake of cutting laterally instead of horizontally. If this cut had run along the veins instead of across it, he certainly would have bled out long before the paramedics would have been able to save him. As it was he had lost a significant amount of blood and harmed himself rather severely, but he would survive. It was the mental damage that worried John now. Blood could be replaced, cuts could heal, scars would even fade in time. The mental wounds that had caused them however, those were the ones that were far trickier to deal with and the ones that made patients return to John once they should have been better.

As if on a cue, Martin began to stir fitfully as John was finishing up changing the dressing on his wound. John blinked, startled. With the amount of pain medication and sedation this man was under he shouldn't be waking up for a good long while, yet here he was coming around long before anyone had expected him to. _Huh, must be tougher than he looks_. Martin seemed determined to prove that sentiment correct by waking up as fast as humanly possible, making John immensely glad that he had stayed long enough to ensure that the man did not wake up alone. His family was on their way, of course, but they would not be here for a while yet and John firmly believed that no one should have to wake up in a hospital room by themselves.

It was several minutes before Martin began to show more signs of life, but John was willing to wait. He kept a close eye on the man's vital signs, ensuring that he did not stress himself more than his damaged body could handle and standing by just in case something should go wrong. But thankfully nothing did go wrong as Martin continued to stir fretfully, fighting his way out the sedation and back into consciousness. Finally, with a slight whimper and a wince against the brightness of the room, Martin opened his eyes and looked around with bleary confusion. John gave him a moment to adjust to the bright sunlight and blink through the many sedatives in his system before he moved slowly to gain the man's attention. But even the gentle movement caused Martin to start slightly and gasp in pain at the sudden movement. His eyes were wide and frightened, confusion and panic written large all over his face.

John spoke quietly in his most reassuring Doctor Voice, trying to calm the poor man down. "Hello there Martin, it's good to see you awake. You gave us all quite a fright there."

His words seemed to have little effect however, as Martin was still looking around in the room in terror. "What?" he asked thickly around the sedation. "Who are you? Where am I?"

"I'm Doctor John Watson, and you're in hospital" John answered, maintaining the professional calm he had built through years of handling sick and frightened patients. "You lost a lot of blood before they were able to get into your flat, which is why you feel so groggy and disoriented right now. It's perfectly normal though, and you'll be feeling more yourself in a day or two."

Martin looked down in sudden amazement, only just now noticing the bandage around his wrist and arm. He stared as he if could not comprehend what he was seeing, as though the possibility of having that bandage there was something that had never before occurred to him. "But, but I thought…" His voice trailed off uncertainly, and he looked up at John pleadingly. "This isn't what I wanted" he said softly, and he sounded so much like a lost and frightened child that it broke John's heart.

"Martin, I'm sorry," he said softly. "I know you're confused and frightened right now, and I know nothing seems to make any sense. But it will get better with time, if you let it." Martin looked back down at his arm, silent. "Now don't worry about being here alone for too much longer, your family is on their way and will be here soon -" Before he could finish though, Martin interrupted him desperately.

"No!" he shouted, his voice cracking. John jumped slightly at the sudden outburst and looked at him with concern. "Please, they can't know. They can't know what I did, what happened. It'll just prove them right, that I failed, that I'm a failure, _please_. Please you can't tell them." He was babbling frantically, looking at John with wide pleading eyes that sparkled with anxious tears.

John shook his head, concerned. "Martin, don't you think you should tell them? They're your family, they need to know what happened" he said, full of worry. He had no idea why Martin was so afraid of his family or why he was so desperate to keep the truth from them, but it wasn't right to tell them a lie. He would of course protect Martin's privacy if he needed to, but it did not feel right that Martin should be so terrified of his own family finding out the truth.

The tears began to spill down Martin's face as he stared at John with desperation. "Please, I'm begging you. My whole life they've told me what a disappointment I've been, I can't stand to have them see they're right. Please" he asked, his voice nothing but a whisper now.

John hesitated. If Martin really didn't want his parents to know about the nature of his injury, John would be forced to keep silent to protect his confidentiality. That level of trust was critical, an essential part of the doctor/patient relationship and one of the only things that made many patients trust him in the first place. But this was a difficult situation, one that made John doubt the need for privacy for the first time. Martin had tried to kill himself, and now he wanted to hide it from his family. More than anything this young man needed help, needed people who would support him and love him and show him that life was worth living. Was it right to lie to his family and potentially keep Martin from getting the help he needed? But even as he opened his mouth to try to convince Martin to change his mind, the door of the room burst open with a bang that made them both jump. An older man strode in confidently, filling up the room with his larger-than-life presence and overbearing authority. A smaller woman came in after him meekly following in his footsteps, and one look at her told John that these must be Martin's parents. He clearly took after his mother in stature and personality, with even the fiery red of his hair reflected in the softer copper tones of her hair that was starting to fade into grey. Martin shrank into the pillows at the sight of them, somehow managing to become even smaller and more unassuming than before.

"Martin!" his father boomed, completely ignoring the fact that the loudness of his voice caused his son to wince in pain. "What the hell is going on? What happened?"

Martin looked down at his hands, picking at the bandage on his arm anxiously as his face flushed a deep red. "Hi dad. Hi mum." He greeted them quietly, so quietly that his whisper could barely be heard even in the quiet of the tiny room.

"Are you alright darling?" his mother asked anxiously, coming over to take his uninjured hand gently. Martin looked up quickly to smile at her, a gesture that was both genuine and gone in an instant.

"Yeah mum, I'm alright. The doctor says I'll be fine in a bit" he answered softly, earning a small smile and a gentle squeeze on the hand from his mother. His father did not seem as happy about this news however, brushing over his words brusquely.

"What did you do this time, Martin? How did you possibly manage to land yourself in hospital like this?"

Martin flushed red and stuttered nervously "I…there was an accident. I was at home, in my flat I mean, and, well, I slipped and –" But before he could continue with his halting words, his father interrupted him again, incredulous this time.

"You slipped? God, this is why you should never have moved into that horrid attic Martin. You can't take care of yourself even when you're at home, much less when you're living by yourself!" Martin seemed to shrink more and more with every word, folding in on himself in a fruitless attempt to disappear into his pillows. His father hardly seemed to notice however, continuing gruffly "I know you want to be independent and continue on with that bloody stupid dream of becoming a pilot, but you can't do it any more Martin. You're throwing your life and your money away, and now you've gone and almost killed yourself because of it." Martin winced visibly at those words, tears springing up in his eyes once more.

"I'm sorry, dad. I…I don't know what happened…" he trailed off, sounding once more like a frightened child terrified of retribution.

John suddenly found that he had had quite enough of this. He had only known Martin for ten minutes, and Mr. Crieff even less than that, but in that time he had seen more than enough to cause his protective hackles to rise. Something about seeing this frail and terrified young man tremble in the face of his gruff and overbearing father who had not even bothered to ask how he was feeling made him angry, angrier than he had any right to be for a man he hardly knew. But he could see now why Martin had begged him to lie to his parents, why he had been desperate for them not to see how he had "failed". Because Mr. Crieff would surely see this as failure, John knew. He had met enough men like Mr. Crieff in his lifetime to foresee exactly how the conversation would happen, and knew there was only one possible outcome. And that outcome was not good for Martin.

John cleared his throat and interjected quietly "Excuse me, Mr. Creiff? My name is Dr. Watson, and I'm the one taking care of your son." He held out his hand, startling Martin's father as if he had just noticed that John was there. He took John's hand warily, shaking it with a slight frown. "As I'm _sure_ you'll be glad to know, Martin will in fact make a full recovery. He did sustain a substantial amount of blood loss, but after a few days in hospital and a good amount of rest, I'm confident that he will be perfectly fine." John kept his voice as neutral and pleasant as he could manage, but he could not find it in himself to avoid glaring slightly as he shook Mr. Crieff's hand.

Mr. Crieff had the good grace to look at least a little flustered, but he shook it off quickly and went straight back to brusque and businesslike. "Oh yes, that's good. Very good. But what _happened?_ No one will tell me a bloody thing besides the fact that my son is hurt, but they won't tell me why or how! What the _hell_ is going on?"

Before he even knew what he was saying, John found himself saying smoothly "Like your son said, there was an accident. It's hard to tell, but the paramedics believe he slipped while he was preparing dinner and cut himself with a kitchen knife. The blood loss caused him to lose consciousness and collapse, which is how he sustained a rather severe concussion that left him unconscious until just a few minutes ago."

Martin was staring at him in astonishment, eyes wide and mouth open in shock. He looked as though he could not believe what John had just said, like he was afraid that he was dreaming or hallucinating this entire conversation. John gave him a reassuring smile, willing him to play along.

"Um, yeah. Like I said, it was an accident. You know me, always clumsy." His smile was strained and one of the least convincing things that John had ever seen, but his father did not seem to notice.

"Well, we'll need to talk about your living situation when you've gotten a bit better. We can't have something like this happening again." He hesitated, then reached out a tentative hand to pat Martin awkwardly on the head. "I'm glad you're alright, son." His voice was rough, but he smiled with genuine tenderness.

"Thanks, dad."

John shifted, feeling suddenly like an unwelcome intruder in a private family moment. "I'm glad that could be cleared up. Now if you'll excuse me, I have other patients to see on my rounds. Martin, I'll be back to check in on you later today to make sure things are going smoothly."

He gave Martin a knowing look, letting him know that this conversation was _certainly_ not over. Martin swallowed heavily, then nodded in return before turning back to his parents. John walked out of the room quickly, his head spinning with the sudden and unthinking decision he just made.

_What the hell did I just get myself into?_


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **Important note! A reader commenting on the previous chapter pointed out that I overlooked issues of doctor/patient confidentiality, which would mean that John could not tell Martin's family about his suicide attempt if he didn't want them to know. After giving myself a hasty scolding for missing this, I went back and edited the chapter to reflect this. Re-reading Chapter 2 is highly recommended to catch the changes!

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><p>Awareness returned slowly once more, coming in drips and drabbles as Martin fought his way again out of the haze of pain and medication that seemed to have become his entire world. Sensations came in one at a time, filtering in separately in ways that disoriented and dizzied him utterly. Sound was first. A gentle, steady beeping pervaded his consciousness, anchoring and centering him as he clawed his way out of the darkness. The beeps were comforting, but confusing. What on earth were they for? Where were they coming from? He wanted to know, needed to know what was going on and what had happened to him. He struggled to open his eyes against the lead weights that seemed to be pressing them down, and saw darkness. Panic exploded in him as he blinked at the darkened room until his eyes adjusted, his heart still thumping painfully even as he realized where he was. A hospital room. He was in hospital. Night had fallen while he slept, leaving the room dark and unfamiliar, but the realization of where he was brought the memories back with sudden, crushing force.<p>

_Of course_. And just like that, the pain returned so sharply that he gasped aloud and curled in on himself to cradle his injured arm to his chest. The line across his wrist burned even sharper than before, spreading and growing and consuming, sending relentless throbs of pain up his arm and shoulder. He had never expected it to hurt like this, had never even considered the consequences of what would happen should he survive. Should he fail. But that was typical, really. He should have known that even in this last, desperate effort he would not succeed and that he would end up in even worse shape than he had been before. Now he was even more useless, even more pathetic – the man who could not even succeed in ending his own life.

Tears welled in his eyes as he held the wounded arm close to his body, burning with shame and regret and humiliation as the rolled down his cheeks. _I never wanted this_. _I just wanted it to be over, for everything to stop hurting. But now it just hurts more than ever._ Even in his own mind Martin thought the words were pathetic and weak, just as pathetic and weak as he was for still being alive. His emotions surged and battled within him, making him sick with sensation. Disgust and disappointment were strongest – disgust at himself for having failed once more, disappointment that he had not been able to escape his horrible life. But deep down, down so deep that he could barely even recognize it, there burned a tiny but still resilient flame of relief. Remembering the trembling of his hands, the fear with which he had stared at the knife, the horror at seeing his own blood spilling onto the floor, Martin could not help but be glad that he had not been successful. What did that say about him? That he wanted to die, but didn't want it to be messy or difficult?

He couldn't even bring himself to cry properly now, even after everything that had happened. What was the point? Why bother with big, theatrical sobs when there was no one here to comfort him or even notice that he was sad? The tears continued to roll down Martin's face as he lay curled into the smallest ball he could manage. He cried silently with the long practice of someone who was used to going unnoticed, someone who had spent years hiding and fading into the background to escape the taunts and jibes and barbs of a world that didn't want him. He cried because there was nothing left for him to do, he cried because his life had no meaning, and he cried because not even death had been able to take away the pain.

He could not have said how much time passed as he lay there, wrapped up into the smallest space possible and shedding tears so quietly that someone just on the other side of the room would not have noticed that anything was wrong. It was not until his pillow was nearly soaked through that his breathing calmed and his tears slowed, leaving him feeling utterly wrung out and empty. This wasn't the kind of feeling that people sometimes talked about after having a "good cry", whatever that was. Martin had never had a "good" cry in his entire life, only lonely, bitter, pointless cries that left him feeling even more sorry for himself than he had been beforehand. Like now, when he didn't even have tears left for the sorry situation that his life had become.

His misery was soon interrupted however when there was a quiet knock on the door, followed by a soft voice asking "Martin? Are you awake?" The door pushed open slowly, harsh light from the hallway spilling in and breaking the peaceful darkness that had kept Martin covered and safe. He shrank away from the light, hastily scrubbing a hand over his face in a useless attempt to hide the telltale red, puffy eyes and the tears that still lingered on his cheeks. Whoever was coming into his room, he did _not_ want them to know he had been crying alone in the dark. A life lived in fear of bullies and a much larger older brother who wanted to "toughen" up his sissy little brother had taught him at least that level of self-preservation.

The backlighting from the hallway made it impossible to tell who was entering the room, but when the door finally shut and Martin's eyes readjusted to the darkness he was able to make out the dim figure of the doctor from earlier. What had his name been? Dr. Watson? The man moved across the room slowly, carefully picking his way through the darkness while clearly trying not to wake Martin should he be sleeping. Although it was tempting to feign sleep in order to avoid having any sort of difficult conversations that were best left alone, Martin knew it wouldn't last long. He was a doctor after all – it was to be assumed that he would be able to tell if Martin was faking sleep. So to break the silence Martin shifted in the bed and coughed slightly, awkward embarrassment making his face flush faintly pink.

"Um, yes. Hello. I'm awake." He paused, unsure. "Hi."

_Oh, brilliant Martin. What a fascinating way to begin the conversation – hi. _But Dr. Watson didn't seem to mind, if the smile Martin could make out through the dimness as he reached the bedside was any indication.

"Oh fantastic, you're awake. I was hoping that I'd catch you when you were awake again. How are you feeling?" He sounded genuinely concerned about Martin, like he honestly cared how he was feeling. Martin didn't believe it for a second.

He looked at the doctor warily, expression closed and guarded. The man seemed nice enough, that was for sure. He could not have been much older than Martin, but the difference between them was staggering. Where Martin was small and scrawny and pinched with hunger and tiredness, Dr. Watson was solid and present and so full of life that it seemed to pour out of him to touch those even those standing near him. His smile was real, creasing a face already beginning to show its wrinkles with laugh lines that only served to make him more approachable and trustworthy. Even now, after knowing this man for a handful of minutes, Martin already wanted to trust him, wanted to confide in him and reach out for the reassurance that he so desperately needed. But what was to say that this man would be any different? He was just a doctor, he was just doing his job by checking on Martin like this. He didn't _actually_ care, not really. Why would he? Martin was nobody important, just another patient that needed to be healed up before he could be shipped out of here.

He suddenly realized that he'd allowed the silence to go on for far longer than was comfortable and flushed a deeper red, hastily clearing his throat to cover up his nervousness. "I'm, well, fine. I mean, I'm not really fine obviously, since I'm here, but I'm ok. Nothing to worry about I guess." He tried to smile, but a sudden stab of pain from his arm turned it into a grimace. The doctor frowned when he saw the gesture, and Martin cursed silently to himself. _Damn, now he'll never leave_.

"How bad is the pain still?" he asked, seeing right through Martin's shabby attempt at stoicism. "Is it manageable? I can call for one of the on-duty doctors to see if we can up the pain meds if you feel like you can't handle it."

Martin considered this for a moment, wondering if he really wanted more medication that would make his head even more muddled than it already was, before stopping short at something John had said. "On-duty doctor? What do you mean? Aren't you my doctor, Dr. Watson?" he asked in confusion. He couldn't be _that_ out of it, could he?

But instead of laughing at Martin or rolling his eyes at the stupid question, Dr. Watson simply smiled reassuringly and answered "Yes, I'm your primary care doctor but I'm not actually on duty right now." He gestured at himself, pointing out his trousers and jumper over a simple button up shirt with not a lab coat in sight. "See? No coat, no clipboard, just plain old John. My shift ended a little while ago, but I wanted to make sure you were doing ok."

This information silenced Martin completely. He could not believe that a doctor, an important man with much better things to do with his time, had come to visit him of his own free will when he didn't even need to. When Martin didn't answer Dr. Watson moved towards the light switch, causing panic to bloom in Martin's chest at the prospect of his tears being seen. The dimness of the room was the only thing saving him at the moment, and he certainly did not want this stranger to get a good look at his red eyes or his blotchy face.

"Wait!" he shouted, causing the doctor to pause and look at him curiously. "Dr. Watson – "

"Just John, please, I'm not on duty."

"John then, please don't turn on the light. I, um, I think I feel better with the light off. It uh, hurts" he finished lamely, praying that his pathetic excuse would work.

John simply shrugged and sat down, leaving the light untouched. "It's probably for the best anyway" he said good-naturedly. "These hospital lights are _awful_, in fact they usually give me a headache after not too long." He paused, then looked closer at Martin before saying "You never told me how you were feeling, not really. "Fine" isn't much of an answer."

"I'm…" Martin trailed off, unsure of what to say. Should he actually tell John how he was feeling? Should he tell him about the throbbing in his arm that reproached him with every stab of pain, about the crushing weight of failure bearing down on him, about the bleak eternity of nothingness and emptiness that faced him? No, he couldn't. Nobody wanted to hear about that, certainly not a doctor that barely even knew him. "My wrist hurts, and I feel like hell, if you want to know the truth. I'm not fine, I'm terrible." There, that was close enough. It didn't even scratch the surface of his real feelings, but at least it wasn't a lie.

John frowned in concern, clearly uncertain of what to say. His answer however, given honestly and without any doubt, was startling. "Listen, Martin, I know that you feel terrible right now – and I'm not talking about the pain. I can't pretend that I know exactly what you're going through, and I won't say that I have the answers. I won't even ask why you did it. But I just want you to know that if you need anything, even if it's just someone to talk to, I'm here for you. I want you to get better, not just your wrist, but all of you. So if there's anything I can do, even if it seems silly, I'll do it. You're not alone."

"Why do you care?" Martin asked quietly, long past the point of worrying about awkwardness or social niceties. What did awkwardness matter to him anymore? John looked at him in confusion, brows knitted as though the question made no sense. "Why do you care about me? People don't care about me, they never do. Sometimes they _say_ they care, or pretend for a little while before giving up, but none of them actually care. Not even my parents, not really. So why should you?"

John stared at him for several long moments, brows furrowed in thought, or perhaps confusion as he considered Martin's words. What could possibly have been confusing about them? It was obvious that nobody cared about him – that had been one of the constants of his entire life, one of the unchanging factors that he could hold up as a measure against the rest of the world. But John seemed genuinely confused by his simple statement, looking at Martin in silence before saying quietly, "Martin, you have to know that's not true."

Martin snorted, not even bothering to dignify this ridiculous statement with an answer. Of course it was true. Who was John to tell him otherwise? He was just a doctor, a doctor that had met him this morning and decided to suddenly take interest in his life. He didn't know anything.

When John saw that Martin wasn't going to respond, he continued "I'm serious. Martin, I know things seem bleak and you feel very alone right now, but you have to know that there _are_ people who care about you a great deal." His voice was quiet, but insistent, as though he _needed _Martin to understand what he was saying. "Your parents love you, you have to see that." Martin laughed bitterly.

"You saw my dad. Tell me, how much do you think he loves me more than he has to?" he asked with bitter resignation, remembering all too well the years of disappointment and frustration and anger from a father who simply could not understand. He had tried of course – his father was not a bad man after all and he had made at least some effort to love his youngest son as he should. But when it had all come to naught, when Martin had come up short time and time again, the day had arrived when he had simply stopped trying. The day when Martin's father could no longer talk to him in anything but a frustrated sigh, couldn't look at him without a faint but still noticeable shake of the head, couldn't find a single thing to discuss with his son that wasn't an exasperated plea for him to come to his senses. His father, love him? Martin had learned better a long time ago.

But John shook his head determinedly, not even hesitating in his answer. "I think he loves you very much, no matter what you may think of him. Do you know what happened when the hospital notified your parents that you'd been hurt? Your dad was in the middle of an important electrical job, and he dropped everything to rush home and pick up your mother so they could come visit you. The only reason they didn't get here sooner was because of the traffic."

Martin felt like he'd been punched in the stomach. His dad, _his_ dad had dropped everything to come visit him? He'd left a job unfinished to come and check that he was ok? His brain spun, stalled in place and unable to move forward. "Wh – what?" he sputtered, not believing what he had heard. "Are you sure? He never leaves a job unfinished, _never_. He forgot to pick me up from school for four hours one time because a job ran long, and he never even apologized!" His voice cracked slightly, and his face burned with the remembered shame and humiliation of having your own father forget about you. He'd sat in front of the school for _hours_, waiting and hoping that every car that turned round the corner would be his dad's van finally arriving for him, all in vain. It was not until darkness had fallen and he had nearly given up hope of ever seeing his parents again that his father had pulled up to take him home, and the silence on the long drive had been deafening. Not a single apology, not a single explanation. Nothing.

Seeing his confusion and bewilderment, John reached over and patted Martin's arm gingerly in a motion of comfort and unspoken commiseration.

"They do care, Martin. I can tell that your dad has a hard time showing his feelings, but trust me, he does love you. There are people who do care about you Martin, and I'm one of them." He smiled, his face a picture of perfect honesty and genuine concern.

Martin felt like he couldn't breathe, like his entire world had been flipped upside down and nothing made sense any more. This was too much to process, too much new and confusing information being thrown at him all at once. Finally when he felt like he would explode he blurted out in despair "But why me? Why do you want to help _me_?"

Silence greeted this question, stretching out between them and separating them like a physical thing as John looked down at his hands in uncertainty and hesitation. Even though he could not have been much past 30, the doctor suddenly looked years older, weighed down by pain and struggle and grief and something that ran even deeper than that. He was tired, so tired that even Martin could see it, run ragged by the demands of his job and his patients and the need to do so much for so many. Finally, John sighed and ran a distracted hand through his hair.

"You're right, I guess. I have lots of patients, lots of people who need my help. God, I have more patients than I know what to do with, and they all need me _so_ much. So why you, out of all of them?" John looked him in the eye, and the pain in them was, just for a moment, a mirror to Martin's own. "I see a lot of people like you, Martin. Young people, people with their whole lives in front of them, and they've just given up. It never gets any easier, seeing that. You do the best you can, you patch them up and send them home, and you hope to God that you did enough because what else can you do? And you know, sometimes it is enough. Sometimes you actually can help." He paused, and when he spoke again after many long moments of silence his voice was subdued. "But sometimes you can't. There was this girl, about two months ago. She was a bit younger than you, really pretty and smart and kind, and she had so much potential to be something great. She took a whole bottle of sleeping pills one night and ended up here. I saved her, just barely, and I helped her get better. She seemed like she was doing better. She promised me, _promised_, that she would get help, that she'd talk to someone and not do anything like that again."

John paused again, swallowing hard. He bowed his head to stare at his hands, as if they could help him find the words to continue. When he finally spoke again it was almost in a whisper, so quiet that Martin had to strain to hear the words. "Last month, when I was doing the night shift in the A&E, I saw her again. It was those damn pills again, a whole bottle just like before. But it was too late this time. She'd died on the ride over, and there was nothing I could do. I just looked at her and thought about all the things I could have done, all the ways I could have helped her, but didn't. She didn't have to die." John finally stopped talking and looked up at Martin, tears bright in his eyes. "I'm sick of losing people. I can't do it anymore. I can't bear watching people walk out of here and knowing that they'll just be back again, but worse. I'm a doctor Martin, I'm supposed to _help_ people!" His voice broke, and in that moment Martin recognized in this seemingly happy man the same defeat and despair that haunted him.

Martin was dumbstruck. He didn't know how to respond, what to say to this heartfelt admission from a relative stranger. It had never even occurred to him that his actions would affect anyone else, or the impact they would have on a man he had never even met. Would Dr. Watson really be upset if something happened to Martin? Looking at him now, with his head bowed and shoulders slumped down, Martin thought that yes, yes he would.

Not knowing what else to say, he simply murmured a quiet "I'm sorry." Whether he was apologizing for what had happened with the young girl or for his own actions, even he could not tell.

John huffed out a quiet laugh, full of bitter regret. "Don't be sorry, please. It's my mess, my mistake. Besides, I don't want you to be sorry, I want you to be _better_." He looked up suddenly, staring Martin in the face with an intensity that made him shrink back slightly. His eyes were blazing in the darkness of the room with a ferocity that startled Martin, making him reconsider his opinion of this man. "Will you make a deal with me? I will commit myself to making you well – all of you, not just the physical damage, but also whatever landed you here in the first place. But in return you have to promise me, _promise_ Martin, that you will commit yourself to getting help. Don't promise lightly, because I will hold you to it. I will make sure that you get better, even when it hurts, even when it's hard, even when you don't want to go on any more because it's just too difficult. But you will be better, that much I can promise you. Will you agree to that?"

Astonished silence greeted these words. Not twenty minutes ago, Martin would have rejected John's words out of hand, dismissing them as just another ridiculous, empty promise. But something about John, something about the way he looked at him and the intensity with which he had spoken rang true in Martin. He believed John, believed that he cared and that he truly did want Martin to be well, and happy, and whole. Without even realizing what he was doing, Martin nodded.

"Yes, I promise."


	4. Chapter 4

John stared at the open file on his desk blankly, pretending to himself and his empty office that he was taking in the words while not actually absorbing a single one. There were about a hundred things he needed to be doing right now: filling out paperwork, reading over charts and reports, and consulting with patients being only the top three in a list longer than he cared to think about. But instead here he was sitting in his office, staring into space, and thinking about exactly one thing – how the hell he was going to help the man he so desperately wanted to heal and had no idea how to reach.

It had been four days since the late-night conversation in Martin's room, four days since John had poured his heart out to a man he hardly knew, four days since that man had agreed to try and save himself. John still had no idea why he was concerned with this one patient or why he needed to help one man out of hundreds. But for whatever reason, without making any conscious decision John had made healing Martin Crieff his number one priority. And currently, it was not going well.

Oh, his physical healing was proceeding well enough. The transfusions of blood and ample bed rest combined with regular meals had served to return color and life to Martin's face, and had even put a little weight on his startlingly skinny frame. That alone was enough to make John worry – nearly every patient he had ever treated had lost significant amounts of weight on the dreadful hospital food they were given. But apparently Martin's food situation at home was even worse than suspected, if the way he devoured anything and everything placed in front of him was any indication. He inhaled every meal as though it were his last, adding a few pounds to a body that desperately needed every ounce of fat it could get. The laceration on his wrist was healing nicely as well; in fact the skin was knitting back together even faster than expected and looked as though it would leave a relatively clean scar behind. The mark would be visible for years to come, of course. There was little that John or anyone else could do for that besides giving it time, but at least the edges of the wound had come together cleanly and neatly.

Those were not the things that were worrying John to the point of not being able to concentrate on his duties and other patients. Martin would heal, that was without question. He would even be discharged from hospital soon. But how he would fare once he was discharged, that was another story.

To put it bluntly, Martin was not better. All it took was one look at the emptiness of his eyes, the listlessness of his movements, the utter desolation of his long bouts of staring at nothing in total silence, and John knew with crushing certainty that Martin was still just as far from better as he had been when he arrived in the A&E unconscious and bleeding. The report from his first therapy session yesterday was not encouraging either. The therapist could not tell John specific details from their session of course, but it was obvious that Martin had absolutely no desire to share anything personal with a stranger, even a stranger that wanted to help him. John could imagine exactly how the therapy session had gone – Martin curled in protectively on himself as he avoided the patient gaze of the therapist and resolutely avoiding answering any question that made him uncomfortable or unhappy. The therapist would remain patient and calm, of course, asking gentle questions and trying her best to get him to open up even a tiny bit. But John knew, even without being there, that it wouldn't work. Not yet.

Martin seemed to truly, honestly believe that no one wanted to help him. Despite the ample evidence to the contrary, despite what John and many others had been trying to tell him, Martin was convinced that not one single person cared about his well-being or happiness. For whatever reason he appeared to trust John more than the others, even more than his own family, but even so it could hardly be termed a deep level of trust. Ever since that late-night conversation, when John had opened up so deeply and earned that crucial promise to try and get well, Martin had shut himself right back up behind a wall of sadness and distrust that seemed impossible to breach. John had no idea how to reach him, how to break down that wall and fix the problem, and it was driving him mad.

A quiet tap on the door shook John out of his moody contemplation of the file on his desk. He roused himself with a shake of his head, trying his best to appear like he had not just been staring into thin air for the last half hour instead of doing his work and feeling very much like a guilty schoolboy as he did so. With one last shuffle of his papers he cleared his throat and called "Yes, come in."

To his very great surprise, he was greeted with a familiar mop of messy red curls as Martin stuck his head through the doorway to look around nervously. He looked terribly afraid, as though he was worried that he had found his way into the wrong office and would at any second be shouted at for his stupid mistake. But his nervousness lessened somewhat when he saw John sitting behind his desk, a smile replacing the uncertain frown and smoothing out the deep worry lines that were permanently etched across his face. It still startled John to see the profound change that a small smile caused on Martin's face, how something as simple as distracting him from his own worries erased years of pain and misery off a face far too young for it. John smiled encouragingly in return, hoping to coax Martin into the office for a talk.

"Oh, hello Dr. Watson" Martin said quietly, easing his way inside slowly and standing just inside the door practically radiating awkward tension as though he were still unsure if he were allowed. "Am I disturbing you? You look busy."

Repressing a sigh, John smiled as encouragingly as he could and gestured at the chair in front of his desk. He most certainly did _not_ look busy, but Martin was clearly uncomfortable and looking for nearly any excuse to retreat out of the office once more. Well, John would just have to make sure that absolutely nothing would scare him away. "Of course you're not disturbing me, come in please. I wasn't making any progress on these files anyway." Despite the friendly and welcoming tone of John's voice Martin didn't budge from the door, eyeing him warily. But when John continued to smile at him expectantly he finally shifted and walked slowly over to the chair, resembling not so much a young man as a wounded and frightened animal.

After a long moment of silence so awkward John could nearly taste his patient's discomfort, Martin finally shifted in the chair and said quietly "They told me that you said I could go home today." He seemed far less than pleased with this news, if the worried frown on his face or the despondent tone of his voice were anything to go by. His hands twisted nervously in his lap, a motion that John already recognized as a sign of his unhappiness.

He smiled encouragingly, hoping to reassure Martin at least a little. "Yes, I certainly did. You've been healing wonderfully – faster than I expected really. All you need now is some good rest and lots of sleep for the next couple days, so there's no reason to keep you here longer than you want to be." But John's attempt at lightening the mood sank like a lead weight, resulting in an even deeper frown on Martin's face and hands fidgeting even more nervously.

"Oh, ok. That's…that's good. I suppose. Home is good." He looked up at John and attempted a smile of his own, but it was one of the least convincing things John had ever seen. It was obvious that Martin was not happy about being discharged from the hospital, and John had the creeping feeling that he knew why.

"Do you not want to go home, Martin?" he asked gently.

The hesitation in Martin's voice was even more pronounced, as was the quiet uncertainty of his words. "I…I don't know. Being in hospital isn't nice, but what do I have to go home to? It'll just be more of my tiny little flat, more of being alone. I – I don't think I can do it."

"Yes, you absolutely can do it. I promise. You've been making wonderful progress Martin, just like you promised me you would. Your therapist has told me that you're doing really well. Do you feel like it's helping?"

A despondent shrug answered his question as Martin ran a distracted hand through his messy curls. "I guess. She asked a lot of questions that I didn't really know the answers to." At John's expectantly raised eyebrows, he blushed slightly and continued awkwardly "Well, she asked me why I picked a knife, and why I wanted to...well, die." His face flushed an even deeper red, the blotchy color standing out sharply against pale skin and clashing with the redness of his hair. "I told her I didn't know. She kept asking me what I had to live for, what things I looked forward to and wanted to accomplish. I told her I didn't know that either."

_Oh_. The quiet admission stopped John dead in his tracks. He had no idea how to respond to that, how to tell Martin that there was so much he _should_ live for, so he instead skated completely around the issue with another question."Did she give you any, um, tips? Any advice to help with the next couple days?" The words were so awkward they nearly made him cringe, but he couldn't think of anything else. This was almost entirely uncharted territory for him, but thankfully Martin was too wrapped up in his own mind to notice how much John was struggling.

"I, I suppose she did tell me a few things. She told me to write a list of all the things I wanted out of life, things I didn't want to lose. And she said that I should have a person that I could call no matter what if I needed help. Someone I could talk to if I felt like…doing something again."

Hoping to keep things cheery, John said lightly "That's excellent advice, I knew we paid her for something." He smiled at his own joke. Martin didn't. "So, er, did you pick your mother? Or one of your siblings?"

Martin blinked at him, face empty. "I didn't pick anyone. Who _could_ I pick? I told you, there's no one who cares about me that much." The words were matter of fact, absolute. They left no room for argument, or interpretation, or quibbles. They were truth, immutable and solid in Martin's mind.

Before he knew what he was doing, John found himself grabbing a business card from his drawer and hastily scribbling down his personal mobile number on the back. He had never intended to become this involved, but one look at Martin's empty face was all it took to convince him that passing the card over the desk was absolutely the right thing to do. "This is my mobile number, and you can use it to reach me at any time. I mean it, any time at all, even if it's the middle of the night." Martin took the card gingerly as though he were afraid it would bite him, looking at John in disbelief. It was clear that he did not believe his words, that he thought this was nothing more than a polite attempt to send him off and out of John's life for good. "I'm serious, Martin. I promised that I would help you, and I haven't changed my mind. If you ever need anything, I mean _anything_, you can call me and I'll do whatever I can to help."

One look at the skeptical look still on Martin's face, and John knew that earning his trust was going to be one of the most difficult tasks of his entire life.

* * *

><p>Over the next several weeks, John made it his personal mission to worm his way into Martin Crieff's life, whether he liked it or not. He knew going in that it would not be easy, of course. Even the short amount of time he had spent with Martin had been enough to show him that even though the man was desperately lonely, he seemed to honestly believe that absolutely no one cared about him. All attempts to prove this assumption wrong were met with resistance and wary distrust as Martin sealed himself off behind a wall of loneliness, shutting himself off from the world as he suffered alone. John did not doubt that Martin had been the victim of some truly horrendous bullying as a child, no doubt provoked by his flaming red hair, skinny frame, and quiet nature. It was not a large leap of the imagination to picture the jokes that had been played on a young Martin, promising friendship and inclusion only to pull it all out from under him and leave him humiliated and even more ostracized than before.<p>

Well, John was determined to change that. He had made a promise to Martin, and he intended to keep it. He started slowly, calling Martin the day after he left the hospital to make sure that his first night at home had gone well and that he had not experienced any unexpected problems with his still-healing wound. Martin sounded genuinely shocked that John had bothered to call him, answering his questions with honesty born of surprise and confusion. Encouraged by his success, John called again the next day, and the day after, slowly moving his questions and conversations away from the strictly professional in to the friendly and familiar. Finally, after a week of dancing around the subject like it was a bomb primed to explode, John took the plunge and asked Martin if he could come by his flat to check that he was still doing alright. Martin could not have agreed with any more reluctance, but an agreement it was and the next day John found himself standing in Martin's flat.

Martin's home was, to put it frankly, appalling. John simply could not believe that the man lived in such horrid conditions, and it took all of his willpower not to gape in horror as Martin watched him in anxious embarrassment. It was obvious from his deep blush and repeated stammers that he was mortified to show John his flat and reveal what poverty he lived in, so John said nothing of the cramped quarters or the ancient furniture or the obvious draft and simply smiled instead. Martin returned the smile nervously, the blush receding slightly, and they both carried on pretending that they weren't sitting on rickety old chairs in a horrid attic flat.

One visit turned into two, which became a weekly meeting, which turned into outings organized by John to get Martin out of the house and into the world once more. Trips to the coffee shop down the road, walks in the park, lunches meant to finally put some weight on that still too-thin frame, all in the hopes of making Martin realize that the world was in fact worth belonging to. John even dragged Martin down to the shop to buy him groceries despite the very vocal protests that he didn't need anyone's charity and didn't want John's pity. This earned Martin John's most withering stare and more food being shoved at him, along with the reminder that John was a doctor and not one who was about to let his patient starve just because he was stubborn. After a bit more grumbling Martin accepted the food, and the company, and even the reassurances that he was in fact improving. The whole process even seemed to be working, albeit not as well as John would have liked. For every step Martin made forward, smiling at a joke or forgetting his nervousness for a moment, it felt like he would take two steps back. John would catch him staring at the slowly-healing scar on his wrist, gazing into the distance, or sometimes simply tuning out of the conversation they were having as though he simply could not continue concentrating. But despite the frustrations, despite the setbacks, despite the many protests that he was fine thank you, Martin began to heal. It was slow, and it was painful, but as the weeks and then months passed by John could see that Martin was getting better.

* * *

><p>Until, one night, it all fell apart.<p>

* * *

><p>Three months after that fateful night at the hospital the shrill ringing of a phone shattered the peace of his bedroom, jolting John awake with a gasp and a pounding heart. He fumbled clumsily on his nightstand for the light switch, knocking over his book and alarm clock in the process before successfully turning on the lamp. He blinked owlishly against the sudden, blinding light, utterly unable to understand why anyone would want to call him at this hour. He wasn't on call for the hospital this week, so unless something <em>truly<em> dire had happened, there was no reason for them to be calling him this late. But as he squinted at the tiny display on his mobile, he saw that the name there wasn't anyone from the hospital, or a member of his family, or even a friend. It was Martin.

_Oh, no._

Heart pounding now for an entirely different reason, he flipped the phone open and hesitantly asked "Hello?". There was no answer. He could hear nothing coming down the phone line, not even the faintest trace of breathing or any indication of another human presence. _Oh God, please no…_ "Martin?" he asked, desperation creeping into his voice. "Martin! Are you alright? Please, if you're ok just say something, anything." After a moment of silence so long that John's heart nearly stopped in the echoing stillness, a ragged, broken, wonderful intake of breath came through the speaker.

"John…" Martin's voice was so quiet as to be nearly inaudible over the phone, but that didn't matter. Relief more profound than he had ever felt flooded through him to hear that Martin was alive, if not necessarily well.

"Are you ok?" he asked again, clamping down on his worry and switching into Doctor Mode immediately. If Martin was hurt, time was of the essence and any time he spent dithering over the phone could cause terrible damage.

But when Martin finally answered, his voice was choked with sobs, not pain. "No, I'm not. I'm not ok. Oh God John I'm so sorry, I just…I just didn't know who to call and you said it was ok but then I woke you up, I'm so sorry –"

John cut him off mid-babble, voice firm. "Don't you dare apologize. I told you to call me whenever you needed anything, and I meant it. You obviously need me now, so don't be sorry, not one bit. Now, tell me what's wrong."

"I – I…" He seemed to be struggling to find the words in between the sobs, until he finally blurted out in a pained rush "I failed the test again."

John's heart sank like a stone. "Martin, I'm so sorry" he said quietly, meaning it with all his heart. He knew just how much that test meant to Martin, how desperately he wanted to pass, how he had managed to tie up all of his self-worth into one, all-consuming goal. To fail once more, to fail for a _sixth _time, would be tearing him to pieces. "Do you – "

But now it was Martin's turn to cut him off, the words coming out in a jumbled rush as though he could not possibly contain them inside himself any longer. "I was so close! I knew _all _the answers, I knew the book, I knew everything, and Dr. Morris said I was ready and that I should try again so I wouldn't be scared of it anymore, so I _did._ But I failed. Again. I was only off by one. _One_, John! But I still failed, just like I always do, because I'm worthless and I'll never amount to anything ever. Oh God, why did I think I could do this? I'll never be a pilot, I'll never be anything, I'll always be a failure. I should just, I should just…" He broke down into sobs once more, his voice lost in tears that sounded as though they were ripping him apart.

The angry desperation and utter despair in his voice froze John to his very core. He had never heard Martin like this before, not even when he had first woken in the hospital to find himself alive despite his best efforts. He sounded ready to do something drastic again. Ready to hurt himself again. Ready to give up, this time for good.

"Martin," he said urgently, praying that he would be able to fix this, would be able to help him, be able to do _something_. "I need you to listen to me. This is important, ok?" He was answered by more sobs, but he forged ahead anyway. "Have you hurt yourself?"

"No." The answered was muffled and indistinct, but that didn't matter one bit to John's frantically leaping and grateful heart.

"Good. Do you _want_ to hurt yourself?"

The silence on the line was deafening enough to be an answer in itself. Martin finally mumbled "Yes", the word sounding as though it were being dragged out of him against his will.

Even though he had guessed the answer, John felt sick to his stomach to hear Martin say it aloud. He couldn't let this happen again, not now. Not after they had come so far together and accomplished so much. He wouldn't lose anyone else, not if he could do something to stop it this time. Without even thinking about what he was doing, John found himself vaulting out of bed and jamming his shoes onto his feet, heedless of the fact that he was still in his pyjamas, that it was the middle of the night, that he was probably insane to think he could do anything. It didn't matter. He had to try, or he would never forgive himself.

"Martin, listen to me. Are you listening?" An indistinct noise that could possibly mean agreement came from Martin, but it was good enough. "I'm coming over, right now. I'm on my way, but it'll take me 20 minutes to get there. Stay exactly where you are, _exactly. _Don't do _anything_, do you hear me? Whatever happens, whatever you think, whatever you want to do, just…don't. I'll be there soon, I promise. Can you do that for me?" He was babbling desperately, but he didn't care that he wasn't making sense. He just needed Martin to agree, to keep him from hurting himself again. He held his breath as he waited for a reply, praying to some power he hardly believed in that this would work.

"I – " Martin hesitated, voice broken and unsure, raw from crying and despair. Finally, after a pause far too long for John's comfort, he answered. "Ok. I won't do anything. I – I'll try."

It wasn't much, but it was enough.

The twenty minutes it took him to race across town to Martin's flat would remain for years to come one of the longest, most terrifying periods of his entire life. He could never remember being this sick with terror and the looming threat of failure, not even during his exams for medical school or during his most complicated and stressful medical procedures. The town seemed to flash by in an indistinct blur, barely registering as anything more than a series of obstacles that needed to be overcome before he could reach his goal. There were probably a thousand traffic laws he smashed to pieces as he roared through intersections and ignored every speed limit, but he profoundly did not care one bit. All that mattered was making it to Martin in time, helping him, _saving_ him.

Finally, _finally_, after an endless eternity of driving and worrying and praying he reached the house that held Martin's horrid little flat. Thanks to whatever power had guided him this far, or perhaps simply the sleeping habits of college students, there were still lights on in the house despite the absurdly late hour. Not caring one bit who he disturbed, he leapt out of the car to sprint over to the door and pound on it for all he was worth. Just as he was on the verge of shouting for someone to come downstairs there was a rustle of shuffling footsteps and the door opened a crack to reveal one of the students peering out at him with a curious, vaguely terrified look on her face. All it took was for John to gasp out "Martin" however for her eyes to go wide in fear and understanding, and she stood aside to let him run by and up the stairs.

Close, so close now. But would he be too late? Heart pounding, breath gasping, fear rising to strangle him and choke out everything else, he took the stairs two at a time past rooms and doorways with sleepy, curious heads poking out to see what the hell was going on. Finally, he was there, outside Martin's door. But suddenly, as he reached for the handle, doubt and fear more crippling than anything he had ever felt seized him. What if he was too late? What would he find on the other side of this door? But he could not stop now, not if Martin was hurt. After a shaky, fortifying breath John turned the thankfully unlocked handle and pushed the door open to enter Martin's darkened flat.

What he saw there nearly stopped his heart.

Martin was sitting at his kitchen table, staring into empty space. No, that wasn't right. He was staring at a knife, _the _knife, the one that he had used to slit his own wrist and that left him unconscious on the floor with the life flooding out of him. But despite the gratitude that flooded John to see him still whole, still unharmed, still _alive_, what he saw as his eyes adjusted to the darkness replaced relief with horror. Because Martin was not just staring at the knife, he was holding it in his trembling right hand with his left wrist turned up to the ceiling. The still-red scar left by that knife seemed to shine angrily in the darkness, a reminder and a reproach and a warning.

"Martin" John breathed, too terrified and dumbstruck to do anything more. The sight of that knife held so close to Martin's vulnerable, shaking wrist stopped his heart and left him utterly helpless to do anything but stare. What if he made one wrong move? What if his presence drove Martin to act, what if he frightened him out of his stupor and into motion? The thought was too horrible to contemplate, and it left John paralyzed with indecision.

But when Martin looked up at him with empty eyes full of tears and whispered like a lost child "John, I waited for you", something in John broke. He needed to end this, tonight.

"Is there a bin outside?" He asked roughly, not even bothering to segue into his question gently. This was not a time for subtlety.

Martin looked at him in confusion, his puzzlement momentarily breaking through the haze of his grief and despair. "I…I think so" he answered uncertainly. "Downstairs, round the back."

"Good. Come on then." His voice brooked no arguments, but Martin still obviously had no idea what was happening. When he continued to blink up at John through his tears and sit frozen at the table, John pointed at the knife and said with a voice full of iron-clad determination "We're throwing this thing out, tonight. We're getting rid of it for good so you can never even _think_ about using it again."

Understanding flooded through Martin, and his eyes went round with panic. "But, but, I _need_ that!" he stammered, face as white as a sheet. "It's my only knife, I can't just throw it out!"

"No." It was a simple statement, a single word, but it hung in the air like a physical thing between them. "You don't need this. This, this _thing_, this is everything you need to get rid of. This is the knife that nearly killed you, and it's just sitting in your flat as a reminder of that. You're getting rid of it, tonight, and after that you're never going to think about it again. Do you understand me?"

Silence greeted his quiet, fierce words. While John had been speaking Martin's eyes had been drawn back to the knife as though pulled by a magnet, tears welling in his eyes and spilling down cheeks so pale they seemed to glow in the darkness. It was obvious that he did not want to part with the knife, did not want to lose the escape and relief it promised him. That was what frightened John most of all now, the terrible, fascinating, dominating hold that knife held over Martin and the seductive whisper of an easy answer that had worked its way into his brain. No matter what John said, no matter what he did, the knife would still be there, waiting with infinite patience and malice. It needed to go, to get out of Martin's life forever, and it needed to happen now.

The moment of indecision seemed to stretch on to infinity, leaving John shaking and terrified as he held his breath and prayed. This was a decision that Martin needed to make for himself, and as much as John wanted to help him he could not. He could push Martin towards it, he could encourage, he could support, but he could not make this decision. After an eternity of waiting and hoping until it felt as though he would explode with anticipation, Martin took a great shuddering breath and slowly put the knife down on the table.

"Ok." His voice was a shaky whisper that echoed like a shout in the tremendous silence of the flat. "But I need your help, John. Please, I can't do this alone."

The moment that knife had touched the table and no longer hovered over that vulnerable wrist, John had begun to move towards the table to snatch it away. He moved the knife as far from Martin's reach as he could manage, then grabbed him by the shoulders to look searchingly in his eyes and say earnestly "Martin, you will never be alone. Come on, let's get rid of this thing."

It was the work of moments to pull a limp and exhausted Martin down the stairs and out the door to stand in front of the large rubbish skip around the back of the house. It stood menacing and huge in the darkness, a great black thing opened up to the night sky like a mouth swallowing up the light and anything else that came near. Martin balked slightly at the sight of it, shrinking away and moving as though to go back in the house. But John kept a firm grasp on his arm, pulling him gently but inexorably over to stand before the skip. "You can do this, I promise." He pressed the handle of the knife into Martin's hand, terror making his knees weak as he did so. Martin stared down at the knife for many long moments, stalled in indecision and doubt, until, finally and all at once, he threw it with angry desperation towards the yawning mouth of the skip.

The knife flew through the air, flashing one last time in the dim lights from the house before it vanished into the skip with a clatter. The silence that followed was profound, echoing into the blackness of the night with the enormity of what Martin had just done. He stared at the skip with empty eyes, as though he could not possibly process what had just happened or the decision he had made. John could practically see the battle raging within him – hope warring with despair, regret struggling against relief. Tears welled up once more, sparkling in the light so like the knife had done mere moments ago as it vanished. Matching tears sprang to John's eyes, exhaustion and thankfulness and joy and sadness crashing over him and leaving him weak and trembling.

"It's gone, Martin. You can never use it again." The tears were flowing in earnest now, pouring down Martin's face as he shook like a leaf in the wind. John pulled him into a fierce hug, wrapping his arms around skinny shoulders and holding tight as he broke down. "It's going to be ok. You're going to be ok."

John held Martin through his sobs, tears soaking into his jacket under a sky filled with a million stars and even more new beginnings.


	5. Chapter 5

There was a hole in the sleeve of Martin's best jacket. It wasn't a very big hole – or it hadn't been an hour ago when he first entered this room. The hole had been lurking there for a few weeks now, the fabric worn through from far more wear and tear than a cheap jacket could handle, no matter how carefully it was kept or tended. Just above cuff on the left sleeve the material had simply given up, quietly and with little fanfare disintegrating from a piece of fabric into a collection of fraying threads. But now of course it was a tiny hole no longer. Constant, frantic picking by Martin's nervous fingers at loose and dangling threads had done more damage in the last hour than months of wear, resulting in a tear that had once been barely visible now standing out the size of a pound coin.

With a quick and vicious tug, another thread was pulled loose and tossed carelessly to the floor. Martin hated himself for succumbing to this compulsion and making the problem worse, but it was simply an urge he could not fight. Not now. Not when nerves so overwhelming they made him sick to his stomach were driving him to distraction, not when he was filled with a sense of looming dread so profound he could not stop imagining the most disastrous outcomes possible. A quick glimpse of the scar lurking under the ever-widening hole only served to make his stomach flip over and wrap itself into even tighter knots. The wound was long healed, the skin closing and repairing itself far faster and cleaner than anyone had anticipated. But even though the gash itself was gone, the scar remained as a stubborn and lasting reminder of a past he wanted only to forget. He did his best to cover the shiny red scar tissue with his sleeves so that he did not have to look at it, but he always knew it was there. He knew that he would carry that scar with him for the rest of his life, that he would always have a mark of what he had done branded into his flesh.

The panic started to rise again as he looked at the scar, unable to tear his eyes away from the puckered flesh that glared at him through the hole in his only good coat. He had no idea what he was doing here, what he had been thinking to assume that this time out of all the others, all the multitudes of his failures would be any different. Hadn't he learned by now? Hadn't he realized that he would never succeed at this? Apparently not; after all here he was sitting in the waiting room for the CPL Exam one more time, compulsively tearing holes in his clothing as he waited and contemplated all the ways that this day could go horrendously wrong. The list had grown quite large by now, and Martin felt like he was on the verge of simply standing and bolting from the room before his name was ever called.

It might be better that way. It might be better for him to simply never try again and live in a constant state of quiet regret instead of failing a seventh time and losing himself to his grief once more. If the last attempt at this test had taught him anything, it was that he was not ready for what would happen if he failed one more time, even if that disaster had been nearly a full year ago. There were still days where he felt just as fragile, just as ready to break at the slightest memory of the crushing despair and yawning desperation that had come with his failure. Even though he had studied so much it felt as though his brain had burst, even though Dr. Morris was confident in his abilities, even though John had helped him work on his ability to stay calm in pressure situations, he was still terrified that he would do as he had always done and fall apart at the last moment. Even now, before the test had even started, he was beginning to panic and question what on earth had ever driven him to be sitting in this uncomfortable chair and waiting with pounding heart one more time.

But even as he began to truly panic, his mind flashed back to the moment that had brought him here, the moment when he had decided that he wanted to try to get his pilot's license one last time. He had been walking to meet John for lunch three months ago, enjoying the midday sunshine as he strolled down the street and hummed quietly to himself. It had been a gorgeous day, and so John had texted him earlier that morning to ask if he wanted to grab a quick lunch during his break from the hospital to take advantage of the rare good weather. Martin hadn't seen John in a few weeks now, and certainly didn't have anything else to do that day – it was his one day off from his dishwashing job and he most definitely did _not _want to spend it cooped up in the attic where he constantly felt like a caged animal beating against the bars in an attempt to escape. He'd texted back his acceptance with a smile, and after eating a quick meal of plain, buttered pasta so that he would not spend too much on lunch he grabbed his coat to head out the door.

It was as he was walking down that street, watching the world go by and thinking on nothing particular, when the thought occurred to Martin like a revelation that today, today as he went to meet someone for lunch in the spring sun, he was happy. No, not deliriously so; not filled with joy, not about to burst out laughing for the sheer thrill of being alive, but simply, and quietly happy. He was content, at peace with himself for the first time in longer than he could remember. Truly told it was a feeling that he had nearly forgotten in all his years of struggle and crushing sadness, and to feel it again with no warning and for no reason other than a slow walk in the sun had been enough of a shock to nearly knock him flat.

_Am I…better?_ It seemed strange to have to ask himself that question, but even so it was one that needed careful consideration. He wasn't entirely better, certainly. There were still days when the emptiness of his flat became nearly too much to bear, when he found himself staring at the scar on his wrist with empty eyes, when the prospect of his future was enough to leave him curled in on himself in hopeless despair. But even without him noticing the change, those days and those moments of weakness and desolation were steadily becoming fewer and farther between. Where before even the simple act of dragging himself out of bed to face the world had once been a daily struggle, Martin had realized that nearly a week had passed since his last noticeable bout of depression. It wasn't total success, of course. He wasn't _better_, not really. But he was getting there. He was improving, a prospect that would never have even occurred to him just a few months ago.

And with that realization, another one struck him, blinding and painful in its immediacy. He knew what he wanted to do, no, what he _needed_ to do. Spurred on by the sudden fire that had seized him, he'd hurried on from where he had been stopped motionless in thought to the café where John was already sitting and waiting for him. John had looked up from his menu with a smile, face open and genuinely happy at the sight of Martin entering the restaurant, obviously glad to see him. They had been seeing less of each other lately, the subtle improvements in Martin's life meaning that he no longer needed so much of John's help and support in everything he did. John of course insisted that they were friends and that it wasn't about being "needed", but Martin was still wary of wearing out John's supply of patience. The last thing he wanted was to be an imposition, not when John had so many other duties and responsibilities that were so much more important than he was. But even as Martin tried to draw away from John and give the man the space he probably wanted, John seemed determined to keep Martin in close. This lunch today had been his idea even though nothing bad had happened recently, and from the happy smile on his face at seeing Martin and the spring in his step it appeared that he had even been looking forward to it.

Fuelled by the brightly burning idea that had taken hold of his brain, Martin sat down quickly and before John could even open his mouth to greet him had blurted out, "I want to take the test again." He had been able to tell right away by the look of shock and concern that immediately crossed John's face that he probably should have led up to that announcement with a bit more subtlety, perhaps by dropping hints or even just warming John up to the idea with conversation. But his heart had been pounding too hard, his mind racing too fast, his nerves singing with far too much excitement and anticipation to allow him to do any such thing. He was better, or as better as he was going to be, and he knew with startling certainty that he needed to try again.

John however had looked far less excited about this announcement than Martin felt. After a long pause in which he had clearly been considering his words carefully, he said slowly "Are you sure, Martin? Do you think you're ready?"

The question sent a flutter of nerves through Martin, but even that was not enough to dampen his new-found enthusiasm. Swallowing against the nerves he nodded as decisively as he could manage. "Yes. Well, no I'm not ready for the test yet. But I know I want to try, and I think I'm ready to start studying again. I want to try."

The look that John gave him was long and searching, seeming to measure the Martin that sat in front of him against the Martin he had met over a year ago laying in a hospital bed. Martin had held his breath, praying that John saw the same improvement he felt, that whatever he found in his measuring gaze was enough to convince him that this was a good idea. Because even then Martin had known with a certainty that time had proven absolutely correct that he could not do this without John and his support and understanding. Finally, what felt like a lifetime later, John had sighed and run a hand through his hair in the way that Martin had learned early on meant that he was uncertain or exasperated. Less than two minutes in, and the conversation was already not going well. "I just…it's not that I don't think you can do it, I know you can, of course, and I know you _will _pass one day. But are you sure that now is the right time? As a doctor, and as your friend, I just worry about repeating…"

He trailed off, the rest of the sentence hanging in the air between them. Neither of them needed to be reminded of the last time that Martin had tried the test too soon, and even now as he sat waiting and ready as he would ever be Martin felt a ripple of fear pass through him at the memory. The last year had been a hard-fought struggle to leave that night firmly in the past, and the expression on John's face at the mention of attempting the test again had said as clear as day that he was afraid of starting all over again.

But even the reminder of his last failure had not been enough to dampen Martin's enthusiasm, not when the siren call of flight had gotten into his blood and sent his head soaring off into the clouds. "I know, but it won't be like that this time" he had insisted, leaning forward in an attempt to convey to make John see the certainty that was filling him, make him understand just how _sure_ he was that this was the right thing for him to do. "I feel…better. Not entirely better of course, I know it doesn't happen overnight like that. But – oh it's hard to describe, but I feel like I'm on the way to being better. Like I won't fall apart this time if it goes wrong, like I'll be able to keep myself together during the test if I try hard enough. I think if you help me, and I study enough, and I learn to stay calm, I'll be able to do it this time." The words had come out of him too fast, spilling out of his mouth like water that rushed through open fingers. He stopped to calm his racing heart, to center himself, to prepare for the question that was suddenly more important than any he had asked in his entire life. "Please John, will you help me?"

It had been that question that had finally broken down John's resistance to the idea and won him over of course. If Martin had learned anything at all about John by that point in their acquaintance, it was that his desire to help was ingrained so deeply that he could not fight it for long. Even if he did not necessarily think that Martin taking the test again was the best idea, he would do everything in his power to help him pass. "Alright. If you think you're ready, _really _ready, not just in a good mood today or this week even, then I'll help you get ready. It won't be easy, and it'll be a lot of work. I won't let you fail this time. This time you're going to do every single thing possible to get you to pass. Are you ready for that?"

He had nodded, excitement and nervousness and anticipation surging within him even as he said with determined certainty "Yes, I'm ready."

Oh how he longed for even a scrap of that certainty now. How he wished that he still possessed even the tiniest bit of the assurance and confidence that had filled him at that moment, or during the long hours of practice and revision he and John had done together over the following months. Nothing made him happier than talking about planes, except flying them of course, and the countless review sessions had filled Martin with happy confidence as he realized just how much already knew. But that confidence was gone now. Now, he was filled only with sickening dread and certain knowledge of only one thing – that he would fail. He always failed, no matter the circumstance, no matter how hard he tried or how desperately he wanted to succeed, he failed every time. Why should this time be any different? Just because he had studied a little more, because he had convinced himself that _this _time he wouldn't panic and make a fool of himself yet again? Ridiculous. This whole thing was ridiculous.

But even as he had convinced himself that being here was a mistake of colossal proportions and was preparing to flee, the door of the waiting room swung open. He froze halfway through the act of standing up, horrified guilt and embarrassment filling him as his face flushed a shameful, angry red. But thankfully the older man standing in the doorway was too distracted by his clipboard to notice Martin's awkward pose or his furious blushing, and his brow furrowed in concentration for a moment before he finally called out "Martin Crieff?"

Taking the opportunity to stand up all the way without being noticed and collect himself as much as he was able, Martin tugged nervously at his fraying jacket and cleared his throat t answer. "Yes, um, here. I mean, I'm Martin. Martin Crieff, hello." This only made his flush deepen, and he cringed in horrified embarrassment at the awkwardness of his stuttered response. _Oh God,, what is_ wrong _with you? You're the only one in the room and that's how you answer? God he's going to think I'm an absolute moron, great job, just bloody fantastic…_

But once again the man seemed to take no notice of Martin's mortification, or perhaps he had simply been an examiner so long that he was used to dealing with nervous wrecks like him. Looking over towards where Martin was stranding frozen awkwardly in place with twisting hands and trembling fingers, he smiled reassuringly and said "Ah, hello there Martin. My name is Frank Masters and I'll be your examiner today. Are you ready to get started?"

Words failed him, slipping out of his grasp like water and leaving him mute with terror. _No! _his mind shouted, desperate and thrashing like a caged animal. _I'm not ready! I'll never be ready! _Every instinct in his body was telling him to turn tail and run, to get out of here before he ruined his life one more time. But some previously unknown courage, or perhaps willful stupidity, welled up inside him, battling through the fear and clawing just enough of a path through the desperate anxiety to allow him to nod his head. That seemed to be enough of an answer for Frank, who smiled one more time before gesturing to the open door for Martin to precede him.

Every bone in his body had suddenly turned to lead. That was the only explanation for why it took every ounce of strength he possessed to take one tiny step, then another, and another across the room that was suddenly a mile wide. Every step he took sent his pulse shooting higher, made his throat constrict a little tighter, made the weight that had settled on his chest press down harder until he felt as though he could not breathe at all. He was being crushed, utterly flattened by the weight that was bearing down on him and pressing the life out of him with inexorable, impossible pressure. _Oh God, oh no oh no oh no_. He couldn't breathe, couldn't see, couldn't think. All he knew was panic, and dread, and the certainty of failure as his lungs began to burn and the room started to spin wildly out of control.

But even as panic and blackness began to circle in around him, a voice broke through the tumult of his mind as a lifeline of shining calm and hope through the darkness. The voice was familiar, and soothing, and he chased it with all the flailing desperation of a drowning man seeking salvation. It was John, his voice echoing down Martin's memory as steady and even as it ever was. The words were from one of their many practice sessions in preparation for this very moment, when they had been searching for any means possible to calm Martin's nerves in the face of just such a panic attack. "Remember Martin, you have to breathe. Breathing is easy, and it's what will keep you calm enough to focus. Breathing is….it's just a rhythm, and it's one your body knows. Just let yourself breathe, and the rest will follow."

A rhythm. It was just a rhythm, not some impossible or insurmountable task. He could do it, if he allowed himself to, and if he just concentrated hard enough. Even now, as the darkness began to close in and he felt as though he were about to faint, he could do it. Remembering everything John had taught him, thinking back on that confidence, that surety that he had possessed, Martin turned all of his will onto the simple act of breathing. And somehow, even though it felt like the weight was still crushing him and all of the air had been sucked from the room, he managed it. One deep, shuddering breath became two, followed by another, until finally, _finally _a shaky and uncertain rhythm was restored. It wasn't perfect, and it felt to Martin like it all might fall apart at any second, but he had done it.

The overwhelming panic began to seep away. The fear still remained, of course, making his heart hammer and his palms sweat and his limbs shake as though he were about to collapse. But fear was manageable. Fear could be dealt with, could be shoved aside and compartmentalized, could be fought through even when it felt impossible. It was the blind, raw, consuming panic that had been the enemy, and that was melting away like snow in the spring sunshine with every breath he took. _I can do this_. The thought was strange, unfamiliar and foreign in a mind so accustomed to constant failure. But for the first time, Martin was sure of himself. If he had managed to fight through a panic attack and _win_, and if he could just keep breathing in that steady, constant rhythm, he could do this.

It felt like an eternity had passed since the instructor had gestured Martin through the door, and for a horrified moment he wondered just how long he had been standing there and gasping for breath. But despite the enormity of the battle he had just won, despite the lifetime he had spent fighting for a single intake of air, it appeared that barely any time at all had passed while Martin had gotten his breath back. Several pained blinks to clear his eyes and return the room to normal showed that Frank was still standing next to the door, still smiling at Martin, and still waiting for him to go before him into the testing room. Everything had happened in the blink of an eye, not the eternity that it had seemed. Taking a step towards the door was difficult, but nowhere near the challenge that finding his breath had been, and the next step was even easier. With shaking legs, one foot was put slowly but surely in front of the other, until a lifetime later he had finally reached the door.

Frank gave him a gentle pat on the back that nearly sent him sprawling, the surprising gesture obviously meant as a wordless expression of comfort and reassurance. For some reason that Martin could not possibly fathom, Frank seemed to like Martin, or at least not _dislike _him quite as much as his last two examiners had. The woman from his last test had barely even looked at him more than she absolutely had to, writing him off as a lost cause from the moment he walked in the door, and just thinking about the sneer from the examiner before that when he had begun to panic was enough to make Martin's face burn with shame. But Frank appeared not to share their scorn or abysmally low opinion of him, and although Martin had absolutely no idea why that could possibly be he _certainly_ wasn't going to question it. Any help at all, even if it was something as tiny as the examiner not hating him, was still a help. Maybe this time it would even be enough.

"Alright Martin, let's get started."

The door closed behind him, and Martin's seventh attempt at the CPL Exam began.


	6. Chapter 6

One ring.

_Please pick up. Oh please, please pick it up._

Second ring.

_Come on, please –_

"Hello?" John's voice came through Martin's mobile, tightly controlled and so obviously kept to a careful, even calm. The lightning speed at which he had answered the phone undercut the pretension of calm however, and Martin grinned to himself as he thought of John sitting and waiting impatiently for his phone to ring. It didn't matter though. He was on the phone now, however long he had been waiting, and the blood singing in Martin's ears and the thousand words dancing across his lips made it impossible for him to do anything but tumble them to out to the ear waiting to receive them.

"John, it's me." The words were difficult to get out, bubbling up inside of him and choking him on everything that he so desperately needed to say without knowing how. He stopped himself, momentarily unable to go any further.

"Ah, Martin. Hello." Oh yes, there it was. There was the slight crack in his voice, the delicate hesitation, the strain of waiting and worry that broke through to tell Martin just how nervous John actually was no matter how he struggled to hide it. The pretense was absurd, especially for a man who had been through so much with Martin and seen him at his lowest point. But somehow the forced nonchalance of John's words was comforting, especially as he asked in the most off-hand manner he could muster "How are you doing?"

Well, that was the question, wasn't it? The question that had shaped both their lives for the last year and a half, the question on which so much was riding, the question that hung so precariously in the balance today. Martin briefly considered dancing around his answer to prolong this moment and leave John hanging for just that little bit longer, but the words spilled up and out of him all at once unbidden. "I passed the test! I did it John, I finally did it!"

This time it was a long and happy sigh that came down the phone line, both an exhalation of fearfully held breath and a release of tension and stress and fear that was finally no longer necessary. "Oh _Martin_, congratulations! I knew you could do it, I just knew it!" The elated relief in John's voice very clearly said that he had known no such thing, but Martin found that he could not possibly care about that right now. What did it matter if John had been worried about him passing, or if Martin had doubted himself entirely, or if the whole world had doubted him for that matter? He had done it, he had _finally_ done it, he had passed the test in the face of ridiculous, impossible odds and a world that had done nothing but tell him that he could never succeed.

But John had believed in him. The worry in John's voice didn't matter in the slightest, because that ridiculous, kind, wonderful man had showed him that he _could_ succeed if he just pushed himself hard enough and stopped giving up on himself. He wanted to tell John everything now, and the words came pouring out of him in an ecstatic babble that he didn't even try to control. "Oh God it was so difficult, it felt even more difficult than the last time when I only failed by one and this time I was so sure that I had failed again. I thought I'd messed up again and I started to panic, I even started to panic before I got into the test because I was so scared but I remembered everything you told me and all the practice we did, and I did it! I was able to breathe, and breathing kept me calm like you said it would, and I was able to get through the test without really panicking once!" Now that he had started he didn't think that he would be able to stop, the words coming with an ease and rapidity that for once did not leave stuttering and tongue tied. "Oh I can't believe it, I finally did it! I'm a pilot! A pilot!"

His voice broke slightly in his excitement and John laughed, but the sound was neither cruel nor mocking like the laughter Martin so often expected. It was an outpouring of joy, a sign of relief, a sharing of happiness and friendship that warmed Martin through and left him feeling as though he were floating above a world that was limitless in its possibility. "Yes, you're officially a pilot now, with all the papers and the license to prove it." John paused slightly as though searching for just the right words before continuing. "Martin, I'm so proud of you. You worked so hard, you absolutely deserve this. You deserve it more than anyone."

The affection and pride in John's voice was enough to make Martin eyes burn slightly, and he swallowed hard to push down the lump that had mysteriously appeared in his throat. "I – thank you John. I've never properly thanked you for…well for everything. But I couldn't have done this, done any of it without your help."

It wasn't enough of a thank you, not by a long shot. There could never really be enough of a thank you, nothing that Martin could ever say that would cover the enormity of what John had done for him. How could one possibly say thank you for picking up the pieces of a shattered life and putting them back together with infinite patience and care? How could he ever repay John for what he had done? But thankfully, John seemed to understand what Martin was trying to say, at least a bit. "You're welcome. I'm just glad I could help, and that it was all worth it."

There was a moment of silence, filled with a hundred things that did not need to be said and the easy understanding of two men who had shared so much and travelled so far together. Suddenly though, John spoke again with excitement. "Hey, I just had an idea. I'm done with work for today – well not really but this paperwork can wait until later, so why don't we stop by a pub for a drink? I think today of all days you deserve to celebrate a bit"

Just as he was about to respond with an eager yes, of course he would like to celebrate with John, the nagging voice of reality whispered a caution in his ear. Frowning slightly, Martin glanced down at his watch, suspicions confirmed when he saw what time it really was. "Wait, it's half three. How on earth are you almost done with work already?"

There was a moment of guilty silence on the other end of the line. "Well, er. When I say that I'm done with work…" he trailed off, and Martin chuckled to himself. God, was this what being happy felt like? It was marvelous.

"Trying to skive off work early Dr. Watson?" he teased lightly.

John snorted. "You know what, yes. Yes, I absolutely am. I'm going to skive off work to celebrate my friend passing the most important test of his life, because that's a hundred times more important than this ridiculous paperwork."

_Oh_. Martin was stunned. It really shouldn't have been surprising that John would want to do this for him, but for a reason he could not quite place this simple statement blew Martin away. John was going to ignore his responsibilities, his duties as a doctor, to spend time at a pub with Martin. To spend time with his _friend_.

"Oh, um, ok. That sounds really nice actually. I guess I do deserve to celebrate, don't I?"

The smile in John's voice was audible even over the phone. "Damn right you do. See you in an hour?"

An hour later found Martin sitting in the pub nearest the hospital where John worked, sitting alone at a table and becoming increasingly uncomfortable as the minutes ticked by. Pubs had never exactly been places where he had ever felt at home, which was of course to say that he had never had an experience at a pub that had not ended in utter and complete disaster. Sitting and staring at the wood of the table only made the memory of his last pub trip even stronger in his mind, the hours of endless waiting for a date that never arrived feeling sickeningly similar to the brief waiting he was doing just now. But even as he was beginning to fear that history was doomed to repeat itself John entered the pub and scanned the room for Martin, face lighting up happily when he saw him.

"Martin! There you are!" He hurried over to the table and pulled Martin up out of his chair into a gigantic hug, squeezing the air out of him with the forcefulness of his embrace. "Or should I say Captain now? You are a _pilot _now after all."

A laugh was startled out of Martin by the enthusiastic hug that was followed by a strong clap on the back, and another by John's gentle teasing. All of his discomfort had vanished the moment John arrived, leaving him feeling a thousand feet tall and ready to take off soaring into the clouds at any moment. "No, not Captain yet. Just because I have the license doesn't mean I'm a captain of anything."

John scoffed. "Pah, that'll come soon enough. Now come on, why don't you have a drink yet? We have celebrating to do."

Martin trailed after John over to the bar, happy and excited and faintly unsure of what the exact protocol for the situation was. Did he buy his own drink? Did he buy the first round? A sigh from his empty wallet caused him to shift uncomfortably at the thought, but the problem was solved for him when John not only bought the first round but opened up a tab for the two of them for the rest of the evening.

"John no, you can't pay for everything –" he began, face flushing slightly in embarrassment.

But a year and a half spent together had taught John exactly where Martin was headed, and he cut him off forcefully before he could get any further . "I can, and I will. We are _celebrating _tonight, and I mean to do it properly by getting my mate smashed. Now shut up and take your beer."

Another surprised laugh huffed out of Martin as he did as he was told, taking the beer and sipping at it happily. "Alright, alright, I didn't realize you were so invested in getting me drunk tonight. You don't have any devilish plans for me later on, do you?" he asked teasingly, quirking an eyebrow and reveling in the liberty of actually being allowed to so.

John's eyebrows shot up at the quip, but a small smile twisted over his face even as he pointed an accusing finger at Martin's chest. "Oi, hush it you. Just because you're some fancy pilot now doesn't mean you get to start giving me lip. If I'd known that you'd get sassy once you got that damn license I'd never have helped."

Martin chuckled, soon joined in his laughter by a grinning John, and they clinked their glasses happily before taking a long and satisfied swig of their pints. Finally, with glasses already approaching half empty, John shooed Martin back over to the table he had been occupying before and indicated he should sit down. Once they got themselves settled, John set down his glass and looked at Martin long and steadily.

"Ok. Now, tell me everything."

He did. It was like the words had been bottling up inside his chest, waiting for a chance to escape and a receptive ear in which to make a new home. John was one of the best listeners that Martin had ever met – although that was not saying much actually since most people did a very good job of _not_ listening to him, but John was different. He leaned forward, looking for all the world as though he were hanging on every word and every anecdote that Martin could remember. Through extensive explanations and minute details about every section of the exam, from the very first, brutally difficult Navigation section that had nearly failed him to the Aircraft General Knowledge section that he had breezed through for a badly needed confidence boost, John listened to it all. Martin talked until it felt like his jaw would fall off, stopping only for sips of beer when his mouth got too dry.

Finally though, the words slowed and stopped, leaving him wrung out and empty in a sweetly satisfying way he had never experienced before. For the first time he could remember he was not embarrassed for having talked so much, he was not spluttering and horrified at the endless babble that had just escaped from his mouth, he was simply through talking after having regaled his friend with the story of his success. It was brilliant. John had even looked interested throughout the entire story, nodding and asking questions about things he did not understand, and had laughed when Martin had reenacted his mixup with the pencils and pens.

He was smiling still as he looked at Martin with pride, and when the flow of words ended to leave a comfortable and happy silence between them he asked quietly "So what are you going to do now?"

It was a simple enough question, one that Martin should have already considered already, but all the same it stopped him dead. What _would_ he do now? With mild panic Martin realized that for all of his desperate hoping, all of his fanciful imagining, all the hours spent dreaming of this day, he had not thought one second beyond passing the test. In fact, he had barely been able to conceive of himself passing the test at all, so much so that a possible plan of action afterwards had never even crossed his mind.

_Oh god, what _do _I do now?_ The future stretched out in front of him, yawning in its immensity and potential. What did you do, when your life changed utterly in an instant, and yet still left you exactly where you had been? How did you move forward when you had achieved the only goal you ever had, the only accomplishment that had ever been worthwhile? What did you set your sights on then?

John was watching him expectantly, eyebrows raised and the patient smile that Martin knew so well sitting comfortably on his face. The smile calmed Martin, as it always did, and he shrugged slightly. "I – I don't know really. I never thought about it, you know?" He paused again, searching for the words to express what he wanted to say. "I suppose, well I suppose I'll have to start looking for a job as a pilot now. God, that's weird to say. I don't really know where to start, but maybe I'll be able to find something as a First Officer somewhere. Then who knows, maybe in a few years I can actually be a Captain?" It was the first time in years that he had allowed himself to even think of becoming an airline captain, the first time since he had failed his very first test that he had given himself permission to hope that one day he would actually achieve the dream he had cherished for so many years. But now, with the test behind him and the future stretching out in front of him with limitless possibility, it felt right. It felt _possible._

John smiled warmly, eyes shining with pride and happiness. "That sounds like an excellent idea. I know you'll find something great, and I don't doubt you'll start moving up the ladder once you do. But you'll have to make sure and email me when you get promoted to Captain – I don't want to be the last to know just because I won't be around."

The noise of the pub, of conversations, of laughter, all fell away to leave nothing but the two of them. Nothing else mattered in the entire world besides what John had just let slip out of his mouth and the room seemed to narrow before Martin's eyes as he blinked slowly in uncertainty. The smile slid off his face, heart falling along with it as he tried numbly to understand. "Wait, what do you mean?"

Silence as thick as a blanket descended. John's eyes went wide, then closed tight briefly as he sighed to himself. "Damn."

Martin felt like the floor had been pulled out from under him, like he was floundering for support as the world tilted violently on its axis. He must be misunderstanding this, he must be. "John? What do you mean?" he asked again, not concerned in the slightest with the panic edging into his words or the way his voice broke.

When John's eyes finally opened and met Martin's own, they were a thousand years older and filled with more regret than Martin had ever seen in eyes that were not his own. "I didn't want to tell you like this. I wanted – I wanted to wait a bit, let things get back to normal. To give you some time." He stopped to rub his hand through his hair, sending it standing on end and telling Martin just how uncomfortable he was. When he finally spoke again, his voice was quiet and determined. "I'm, well, I think I'm going to be going away for a little while. I've looked into it, and I think I'm going to join the Army."

Had all the air left the room? Or had the temperature plummeted suddenly, leaving him frozen in place and unable to do anything but stare? That had to be it. Why else would he all at once feel as though ice had been poured down his spine, like he could not move or breathe or do anything but sit and stare at John in shock? The _Army_? Why on earth would John want to join the Army while there was a _war_? He was a doctor, not a soldier. There was no reason for him to leave, no reason for him to risk his life in some stupid war when he had a life here.

_Does…does he want to leave because of me?_ The whisper was insidious, a treacherous voice in his head that threatened to tear the happiness and surety he had painstakingly built to pieces. The doubt surged within him even as he tried to quash it, berating himself for ever thinking such a thing. He knew that John was not leaving because of him. It had taken him months to accept it, and perhaps he still had not accepted it entirely, but he knew now that John truly considered Martin to be his friend. But that did not make this any easier. In fact, it might just might make it worse.

"The…the army? Why? Why? I mean…_why_?" All of his new-found eloquence of the last hour vanished in an instant. The words piled up on his tongue once more, tripping over each other as he tried to process the information that was just about to knock him flat.

John sighed, the sound heavy and tired and not one that Martin had ever heard from John in all their time spent together. "It's not a decision I made all at once. I've been thinking about this for a while, and it – it just feels like the right thing to do. I need to do _something_, I need to have a purpose and make a difference in the world. Working at the hospital, it just hasn't been the same lately. You know how unhappy I've been there recently, and I just can't bring myself to do it anymore. It's not worth it."

_No, I didn't know_. Truthfully, Martin had never realized that John was unhappy. He hadn't seen it, hadn't noticed anything wrong with the man he called his friend in all the months they had spent together. _Have I been so wrapped up in myself that I missed John being miserable? Am I that terrible of a person? _"I didn't know you were so unhappy. I'm sorry." The words were tiny, ashamed, full of regret and remorse. Martin wanted to find a hole to crawl into, the hide and never see the light of day again for being so blind and so selfish.

But John had other ideas, eyes narrowing and voice going fierce the second he heard the shame and apology in Martin's words. "Don't you dare be sorry for anything Martin. Helping you, studying with you, getting you ready for the test, that's what's been getting me through it all. At first I just wanted to get you better, but then we became friends and, well, you gave me a purpose again. And now, look at you. God, you're so much better than I could have ever hoped. Do you see, Martin? I can't just go back to filling out paperwork and making rounds and dealing with bureaucratic bullshit. I can't."

He should say something. He should do something, other than stare blankly down at his twisting, nervous hands. But what was there to say? What was there to do? "Oh, yes. Well, I suppose, that does make sense" he said quietly, hating himself more with every word.

John reached out to cover Martin's restless hands with his own, a gesture of comfort and apology. "Martin, I'm so sorry for telling you like this" he said with genuine regret. "Please, you have to know that this isn't because I want to leave you, or for anything you've done. It's just – it's something I need to do. I need to do something, _anything_ worthwhile. I need to make a difference. And I think the Army is the only way I can do that."

"You made a difference to me." It was a whisper, the barest thread of sound that cut through the tension in the room like a knife. Martin hadn't even meant to say it, hadn't wanted the words to slip out of his treacherous mouth the way they had. But he meant them, meant them with every fiber of himself, and it was too late to take them back now.

John smiled, tiny and sad, and it was the saddest smile that Martin had ever seen. "Yes, I suppose I did a bit. But honestly Martin, that was you. You made a difference to yourself. You saved yourself, I just gave you a push. And you're going to be fine without me now, I know you will. You don't need me, you never really did."

_But I do need you. I've always needed you. I need you to support me, to help me, to believe in me. I need you _here_, I need you to be my friend. Please, John. Don't go._

But he didn't say it. He couldn't say it. He couldn't beg, no matter how much he wanted to. No matter how desperate he was to keep John close by, no matter how much he wanted to fall to his knees and supplicate himself and weep, he could not. If John wanted to leave, he would leave. And Martin would watch him go with a smile on his face and a soul falling to pieces.

And so, Martin did not ask John to stay for him. Instead he smiled against the lump that had filled his throat and said the most difficult and untrue words that he had ever spoken. "Ok. I, um, I'm happy for you. For finding…something to do, something to make you feel alive. I hope it makes you happy, you deserve it." The words stung. They burned his tongue with their lies, with how much he hated the necessity of saying them, with how very empty they left him as they fell like lead weights from his lips. But they needed to be said, and there was no changing them now. After everything that John had done for him, it was the least he could do.

The grateful, relieved smile that John sent him nearly broke Martin completely. "Thank you, Martin. Thanks for being so understanding and supportive, you have no idea how much it means to me." He reached out a hand to pat Martin's knee comfortingly as though he could sense the sudden distress that had overtaken him. "And hey, it's not like I'm leaving forever or disappearing entirely. We can still email, ok? In fact, I _expect _you to email me and keep me updated on what you're doing. I'm not going to lose contact with you, and that's final" he said fiercely, obviously believing everything he said with the same wholehearted determination he applied to every part of his life.

Martin nodded, unable to speak around the crush of disappointment and bitter regret that had swallowed up every trace of happiness he had been foolish enough to feel. Somehow, he didn't think that things were going to be quite that simple.


	7. Interlude

**From:** Martin  
><strong>To:<strong> John  
><strong>Subject:<strong> Hi there (April 19)

Hi John,

I hope it's ok that I email you like this, I just wanted to check that everything is going ok with you so far. You don't need to reply too extensively or anything, I just wanted to say hi.

Martin

**Reply from:** John  
><strong>Subject:<strong> Re: Hi there (April 21)

Martin! Thanks so much for taking the time to email, I can't tell you how much I appreciate it. I don't have a lot of time to reply right now, but I did want to tell you that things are going great so far and that I'm adjusting fine.

How is the job search going? Are you a big impressive airline captain yet? I hope you are, but like I said I'll be VERY upset if you haven't told me yet. ; )

John

**From:** Martin  
><strong>To:<strong> John  
><strong>Subject:<strong> Re: Re: Hi there (April 21)

John,

That's really great to hear! I was afraid that I'd be bothering you or something, but it's great that you're adjusting to stuff well so far. I can't imagine how different everything must be in the army – has it been very difficult so far? I mean, I know that's a silly question to ask since it must be very difficult, but I mean, have you been having an especially hard time of it?

The job search has been…well it's not been easy to say the least. Apparently most airlines don't want to hire someone who took seven goes to get their license, and being terrible at interviews doesn't really help either. But I guess I've just got to keep trying, like you always said. Something's bound to turn up eventually, right?

Hope you're well,

Martin

**Reply from:** John  
><strong>Subject:<strong> Sorry! (May 17)

Sorry about the late reply mate. It's been…an interesting few weeks here to say the least. Finding time to breathe is hard enough, much less sit down at a computer thanks to all the stuff we have to do and the crazy hours they make us keep. It's nice though, having stuff to do all the time. It's hard to explain, but it's kind of nice not having to worry about being bored even when you feel like you're going to fall over because you're so tired. But I think I'm adjusting fairly well for all that, which is nice.

Tough luck on the job search, but I know you'll find something. Like you said, you just have to keep trying and I know that you'll succeed eventually. You've done the hardest bit of passing the test, now the rest is bound to fall into place eventually.

John

* * *

><p><strong>From:<strong> John  
><strong>To:<strong> Martin  
><strong>Subject:<strong> Big announcement (May 20)

Hi Martin.

I don't really know how to say this properly, since I can't really believe it myself. It's hard to process, especially with everything that's happening right now. It's all so fast, so crazy. But I figured that I should let you know that my regiment is being shipped out soon since it means I won't be able to email very often where we're going. I, well, I don't think I can tell you _exactly_ where we're going (secrets and subterfuge and all that), but sod it, I need to tell somebody. In a little over a month my regiment is being shipped out to Afghanistan.

John

**Draft:** (last saved May 20)

Oh god please don't go to Afghanistan. Please don't go. You already left me once, please don't go where they'll shoot at you and kill you. Please be safe…

**Draft:** (last saved May 21)

Are you going to be ok in Afghanistan? Are you going to be fighting and killing people? I thought you were a doctor, not a soldier. I can't imagine you killing anyone, you're too nice to do that.

**Draft:** (last saved May 22)

Oh, wow. I don't really know what to say. Should I be happy for you, or upset? I really have no idea what to say about this. Because I'm not happy, not at all, but I don't want to say anything that will upset you. I don't want to tell you how scared I am, or how worried that something will happen to you. Hell, I'll never send this damn email just because I can't figure out what to say. What kind of friend does that make me?

**Reply to: **John  
><strong>From: <strong>Martin  
><strong>Subject: <strong>Re: Big announcement (May 23)

John,

Afghanistan? Why are they sending you to Afghanistan? I thought you said when you joined that since you're a doctor they won't send you anywhere risky, that you'd be able to help people while staying safe. I mean, I understand that there are people in Afghanistan that need help, I guess I just don't understand why they're sending _you_.

I don't really know what to say about this. Will you be safe? God, that's a stupid question to ask, but it's really all I can think about. I know you can take care of yourself and everything, and that you're smart and that you'll be able to keep out of trouble, but Afghanistan isn't exactly a safe place for you to be going. Even if they do need you there, there must be something else you can do that won't get you killed.

Martin

**From: **Martin  
><strong>To: <strong>John  
><strong>Subject:<strong> I'm sorry (May 23)

John,

I just reread the email I sent you late last night, and I am so sorry. I wasn't thinking at all when I typed that, and I'm so sorry that I said those things to you. If you haven't read the email yet, please don't.

Sorry,

Martin

**Reply from: **John  
><strong>To: <strong>Martin  
><strong>Subject: <strong>Re: I'm sorry (May 25)

Martin,

Please, please don't be sorry at all for what you wrote. It was heartfelt and true, and I know that you are worried about me. And you know what, I'm worried about me too. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't a little bit scared of going somewhere so dangerous. After seeing all the news reports about what happens there, and hearing some of the stories that the men here have to tell, it really makes you afraid of all the things that could go wrong.

But I absolutely promise that I'm going to be ok. My regiment is going to Afghanistan, yes, but like you said I'm a doctor. They're probably not going to send me into the really dangerous areas where they'd risk losing me, or make me do anything that's too extreme. In all likelihood I'll probably be far away from the front lines the whole time, patching people up in a well defended camp or base. It'll still be scary, but I don't think I'm going to be right in the line of fire. And I know that's not much of a consolation but I'm pretty sure it's true.

But you shouldn't feel bad for worrying about me, please. Actually, it's really nice to know that there's someone at home who actually cares enough about me to worry at all – it makes it feel like I have something to work for and a reason to be careful. I don't think Harry's even noticed that I'm gone to be honest, and it's amazing how fast some friends drop contact with you when you've left, so it's really nice to know that you still care. So, worry away my friend. And I promise that I'll get myself home in one piece so that we can have a good laugh about it over a pint when I do.

* * *

><p><strong>From:<strong> John  
><strong>Subject:<strong> Arrived safe and sound! (June 24)

Martin,

Well, I made it! It has been an _absurdly_ long couple days, but I'm glad to say that I've arrived in Afghanistan all safe and sound and in one very tired piece. I can't tell you any specific details of course (wouldn't want to get in trouble for jeopardizing the safety of the mission after all), but I can say that it's bloody hot and that I've never seen so much sand in one place all at one time. That's staggeringly helpful, I know. But honestly I haven't had a chance to suss out much more than that yet, so it's about all I can really say even disregarding the secrecy issues.

Things aren't exactly what I expected here, but that's actually to be expected I suppose. I should have known that no matter how much preparation we did back at base it wouldn't be anything like actually being here and seeing all this stuff for ourselves. Not that it's all bad, mind you – it may be hectic and strange already but there's something almost thrilling about knowing that you're somewhere that you can actually make a difference. It makes me feel…alive.

Is that strange? That I should feel so alive in a place that's so dangerous? I know it is, and that there's probably something quite wrong with me that I feel this way, but I can't help it. For now, I feel so incredibly necessary and alive (I don't think I can quite go so far to describe myself as _happy_ – I'm not THAT crazy) and I know that I'm surrounded by some great men who are here to do great things. It's a nice feeling. Even if I'm also scared out of my mind and worried about the worst happening at any second.

I really hope that everything is going well for you back at home. I think about you often, and send tons of good thoughts and wishes your way to encourage the job search. Like I said before, it's really nice to know that there's someone at home who's thinking about me and worrying about me at least a little bit, and I can't tell you how much it means. I hope to hear back from you soon, although to be honest I'm not sure how frequently I'll be able to reply. The internet here is…spotty to say the best and we don't exactly have a lot of spare time in which to use it. But I will do my best to respond, and I look forward to hearing from you.

John

* * *

><p><strong>From:<strong> John  
><strong>Subject: <strong>Checking in (October 18)

Martin,

Thanks so much for your lovely reply to my arrival email. It definitely brought a big smile to my face when I got the chance to read it. I'm so sorry I haven't had a chance to email before now, but the last few months have been really chaotic here and the regiment has been busier than we could possibly handle. But things have finally quieted down a bit now that the summer's over, so I get to have a crack at the computer for the first time in what feels like years. How are you doing? I miss talking to you, so I just wanted to make sure that everything is going fine with you and to see if anything new and exciting has happened while I've been off acting like an idiot.

Cheers,

John

**Draft:** (last saved October 18)

I miss you.

**Draft:** (last saved October 18)

I hope you're safe. I really, really hope you're keeping yourself safe over there because I don't know what I'd do if you didn't. If something happened to you I don't think I could handle it anymore I think I might just

**Draft:** (last saved October 19)

Oh god John I don't know what to do. Why aren't you here?

**Draft: **(last saved October 20)

I feel like I'm falling apart. I'm all alone, so alone without anyone here to help me, and I don't know what to do about it. I spend every night sitting in my flat, staring at nothing because I have nothing to look at. There's no one to talk to, no one to help, nothing but sitting here all by myself. I keep trying to get out, to meet people like you said I should, but how can I when I don't have any money? And I keep trying so hard to find a job but I'm not getting ANYWHERE and I don't think I ever will. I apply everywhere that could possibly take me, but it's like I can feel them laughing at me every time they look at my application. Every time they find out about my license, about how many tries it took, they just laugh and laugh and send me away and it just makes me want to die. Not really, not like that. I haven't really thought about it again, but it just makes me want to hide and give up forever since I'm obviously never going to succeed. That's a terrible thing to think and I know it's exactly what you told me not to think but how can I help it? When I just fail all the time how can I help but think that I'll never succeed?

I'm scared of my own brain, sometimes. Sometimes, I find myself starting to think about…it and I get so scared of where my thoughts were headed that I just want to stop thinking about anything at all. Every time that happens I just freeze and sit and stare because I'm too scared to do anything else in case the bad thoughts come back. If you were here, I could talk to you about it. If you were here, I could call you or come by your flat or do SOMETHING other than sit and shake and be scared. But I can't call you, and I can't talk to you, not really. I can email, but it takes so long for a message to get there and by the time you read it it's been days or weeks and I'd just feel silly. Plus, I shouldn't worry you with this stuff. God, you have so many more important things to worry about than me being scared of myself or mad about not being able to find a job. You're in actual danger and here I am moaning about being lonely. Pathetic. I'm pathetic.

I need you here John.

**Reply from: **Martin  
><strong>Subject: <strong>Re: Checking in (October 22)

John,

Yes, I'm doing fine. Sorry I haven't emailed much, I just don't want to bother you while you have more important things to worry about. But yes, everything is fine here. I still haven't found a pilot job, but I'm keeping my chin up like you want me to.

I hope you're doing well and keeping safe.

Martin

* * *

><p><strong>From:<strong> Martin  
><strong>To:<strong> John  
><strong>Subject: <strong>_(no subject) _(December 4)

My dad died.

**Reply from:** John  
><strong>Subject:<strong> _(no subject) _(December 6)

Oh my god, Martin I'm so sorry. Are you ok? What happened? Please, just tell me that you're ok, I need to know that.

Please write back soon.

* * *

><p><strong>From:<strong> Martin  
><strong>To:<strong> John  
><strong>Subject: <strong>Update (December 10)

It was a heart attack. We should have seen it coming, I guess. He wasn't ever really a healthy man, was he? But it was still a surprise somehow. It was so sudden it honestly still doesn't seem real somehow. Like it was all a dream, but it's not, it's real and I just don't know how to process it.

I guess I'm doing ok, as ok as I can be doing I suppose. I mean, I'm not great or anything, but I think I'm coping as well as I can. Mum needs to be taken care of and there's a lot of stuff to be sorted through, but Simon and Caitlin are helping out a lot so there's not a whole bunch for me to do. I'm pretty useless to them actually, so I just try to stay out of their way and let them handle things. It seems easier.

But I promise that I'm doing fine. Thank you for caring.

Martin

**Reply from: **John  
><strong>Subject: <strong>Re: Update (December 14)

I am so very sorry, Martin. I wish there were something I could do to actually help, or to make you feel even a little bit better, but I know there's not. I'm sending all the love and good-wishes your way that I can manage, if that helps. (I know it doesn't, but unfortunately it's all I can manage at the moment)

If you ever need to talk about anything, _anything_ that's happening with your dad or your family or just your life please don't hesitate to send me a message. I'll listen to whatever you have to say, you know that. Just because I'm not physically there doesn't mean that I still don't care about you, and I want to do whatever I can to help you through this.

So please, even if it feels silly, tell me about it. I'm here for you.

John

**Draft** (December 20)

His van. He left me his _van_. No money, nothing important, nothing but a beat up old van. I can't believe this. I can't believe he would do this.

**Draft** (December 21)

Simon and Caitlin each got money. He left them something because he cared about them, because he believed in them, because he _loved_ them. But not me. No, I just got that fucking van because he knows that I won't do anything worthwhile with my life so I might as well just give up and be an electrician like he wanted. Maybe he was right. Maybe I should.

**Draft** (December 21)

God I'm a terrible person. I'm mad at my dad because he didn't leave me anything. I'm horrible. I'm absolutely horrible.

**Draft** (December 22)

Would you hate me if I told you all this?

**From: **Martin  
><strong>To: <strong>John  
><strong>Subject: <strong>Happy Christmas (December 24)

John,

I hope this email finds you doing well. Hopefully you can get it on Christmas and not too much later, or at least I hope you get a day or two off from duty to celebrate Christmas a bit. You certainly deserve at least that much time off.

I just wanted to let you know that I'm doing fine even with everything that's been happening. It's been a rough couple of weeks, but I've been able to pull through it thanks to my family and your support. Thank you again for being so caring and supportive, I can't tell you how much it means to me.

**Reply from: **John  
><strong>Subject: <strong>Re: Happy Christmas (December 25)

Martin,

Thank you so much for the lovely email. I know you're going through a lot right now, and it means a lot that you would take the time to email me still. We don't get much time off here, even though it's Christmas, but I still wanted to take a second to reply. I hope you're feeling at least a bit better, and that your Christmas was a good one.

John

* * *

><p><strong>Draft <strong>(December 26)

I still miss you.

* * *

><p><strong>Draft<strong> (February 12)

Do you miss me?

* * *

><p><strong>From: <strong>Martin  
><strong>To: <strong>John  
><strong>Subject: <strong>Good news! (April 10)

I GOT A JOB!

I'm so excited I feel like I'm going to explode! I got a job, a real actual pilot's job! I'M A PILOT!

**Reply from: **John  
><strong>Subject: <strong>Re: Good news! (April 12)

OH MY GOD!

Martin, I am _so_ proud of you! Congratulations! You have to tell me _everything_ – where are you working? How did the interview go? Are you the captain? Will you be making heaps of money now?

Tell me everything!

**Reply to:** John  
><strong>Subject: <strong>Re: Re: Good news! (April 12)

There's not all that much to tell honestly, but I'll do my best. The company is one of the millions of places I've been applying to all this time, but I guess they lost one of their people unexpectedly and they really needed someone to fill in as soon as possible. It's a tiny little company (honestly I'm not even sure if some of the business they do is legal or not), but it pays a bit and I get to say that I'm a pilot. I'm actually just a relief pilot for when one of the actual pilots is sick or can't fly for whatever reason, and it's just for these tiny little puddle-jumper planes that only seat a couple people, but it's still a job. And I'm still a pilot!

I'm still waiting to get my first flight assignment, but hopefully it will be soon. I can't wait to fly an actual plane as an actual pilot. Hopefully I won't muck it up too badly!

**Reply from: **John  
><strong>Subject: <strong>Re: Re: Re: Good news! (April 20)

I'm sure you will be absolutely fantastic, just like you always are. Congratulations again.

* * *

><p><strong>From: <strong>Martin  
><strong>To: <strong>John  
><strong>Subject: <strong>My turn to check in (June 3)

John,

It's been a little while since I heard from you, so I wanted to check in with you and make sure that everything was still ok. I do still worry about you over there, so sorry for being nosy or bothersome. I hope you're doing well.

Martin

**Reply from: **John  
><strong>Subject: <strong>Re: My turn to check in (June 28)

Hi Martin, sorry about the delay. You know how the summers are here – things have been going a little crazy and I haven't had much time at all to myself. Well to be honest I haven't had any time at all to myself until now, since I've had more work than I can possibly handle and not enough hours in the day to do it all. But yes, I'm still doing fine. It's hectic and crazy, but all is mostly well here. How are things with you? How is the job?

**Reply to: **John  
><strong>Subject: <strong>Re: Re: My turn to check in (July 2)

It's good to hear that you're still ok. I'm sorry you've been so busy, and I hope that doesn't mean all the bad things I'm afraid it means. I know you can't tell me even if it did, but still. Just keep yourself safe, ok?

The job isn't all that brilliant so far to be honest, but at least it's a job. I suppose I can't complain too much even though they don't pay me hardy anything and I always get the most horrid flights possible. I didn't know it was possible to fly when you were half-dead from tiredness but I managed it somehow.

Good luck and stay safe,

Martin

* * *

><p><strong>From: <strong>Martin**  
>To: <strong>John  
><strong>Subject: <strong>Is everything ok? (September 1)

Hi John,

Sorry for pestering you like this, but well it's been a little while since I last heard from you and to be honest I was getting a little worried. I've been telling myself that you're just busy of course and that you're ok, but well, I couldn't wait any more. Are you ok? Just a quick email will be fine, I just want to know that nothing bad happened.

**From: **Martin  
><strong>To: <strong>John  
><strong>Subject: <strong>John? (October 3)

Please tell me you're ok.

**Reply from: **John  
><strong>Subject:<strong> Re: John? (November 9)

I'm so sorry Martin. Things have been, well, not good lately. I can't go into any details here, but it's been rather terrible and I haven't had a chance to answer any emails at all. I'm sorry for worrying you. But I am fine, I promise. I'll tell you more when I have the chance

John

* * *

><p><strong>Draft<strong> (December 4)

It's been a year since my dad died. I miss him, more than I ever thought I would when he was still alive. I guess I took him for granted when he was alive. I think I also took you for granted when you were still here. I never realized how much I relied on you, how much you helped me. But now you're gone and I have no one to talk to and I still miss you a bunch and it hurts. I don't want to bother you, not with everything you have to worry about. I don't want to be the distraction that gets you killed. So I'll just leave you alone I guess. I'll just write these emails that I'll never send. Is that sad? I suppose it is.

Goodbye, John.

* * *

><p><strong>Draft<strong> (March 14)

I got through a whole week without feeling lonely. I think I'm finally ok, really ok. I still miss you sometimes of course, but I think I moved on. You have more important things to worry about than me, I get that now. Stay safe.

* * *

><p><strong>From: <strong>Martin  
><strong>To: <strong>John  
><strong>Subject: <strong>Hi there (June 10)

John,

Hi. I know it's been a while. A long while, actually, far too long. I don't know how I let it get this long, or why I was so bad about sending emails when I should have. I don't really have an excuse, or a reason, or anything that would justify us drifting apart the way we have. I guess it was difficult for me to actually write down what I was thinking and feeling, and to separate what I should have said from what I wanted to say. But whatever the reason, I'm sorry.

It's been so long now that I feel a little strange telling you these things, but I feel like I should. You saved my life, in more ways that I realized at the time. You were the one person who cared about me enough to help me, the one person who believed in me and told me that I wasn't a waste of space or time. I didn't believe you when you tried to tell me that, and I still have a hard time believing it sometimes. I've gotten so much better though, and it's all thanks to you. Whenever I start to really doubt myself, or feel really down, I remember what you would have told me and how you would have encouraged me to keep going. And then I do. And I can't thank you enough for that.

I'm not sure if you even still want to read this email, if you still care about what happens in my life at all. But I still wanted to tell you that something wonderful happened, just because I really don't have anyone else to tell. I got a new job today, one that's so much better than the terrible old job I had before. The company is called MJN Air, and they're a charter airline that flies all over the world. And starting next week, I'm going to be their Captain.

It's because of you John. It's all absolutely because of you.

Thank you, for everything.

Martin

**From: **[blank]**  
>Subject: <strong>autoreply (June 10)

This email address no longer valid or in use. Please contact your web provider for help or more information.


	8. Chapter 8

And to think, this was supposed to have been an easy trip for once.

It had certainly _seemed_ like it was going to be an easy trip when Carolyn laid out the flight plans for them three days ago in the airfield, carefully explaining in that special tone of voice reserved only for them that managed to be both infinitely patient and eternally exasperated at the same time. She had laid out how each of their stops would fit perfectly together, dropping off one client and picking up another in perfect succession with _exactly_ the right amount of rest time granted in between, all culminating in a nice easy stop in London to pick up the most important client they had ever had. Mr. Fredrickson was wealthy, fabulously wealthy in fact, so wealthy that he was more than happy to pay MJN Air twice their normal fee to pick him up in London make an easy hop over to Munich. If nothing went wrong and Mr. Fredrickson was satisfied enough to be a regular customer, this flight would put MJN in the black for the foreseeable future. _That_ had been a point that Carolyn had been most eager to impress on them as she spoke, repeating herself at least three times in the hopes that maybe, just maybe, on this one flight nothing would go catastrophically wrong and she might just be able to earn some money.

Of course, as it was with every single one of their endeavors, nothing was ever as easy or as simple as Carolyn hoped that it would be. The first three flights had gone smoothly enough, a fact that surprised everyone involved including the passengers who were brave enough to be return customers of MJN even after their last disastrous incident with the baggage mix up at customs in Greece that had resulted in one unfortunate woman ending up with a suitcase full of fish and Martin being detained by Greek officials for nearly 24 hours. But thankfully Douglas Richardson was nothing if not an accomplished smooth-talker, and a well-timed bribe along with a deft bag switch had smoothed the crisis out without any lasting international ramifications and only the ruffled feathers of a disgruntled and unhappy Captain to show for it. The fact that this was not the first time he had been held in a foreign country thanks to MJN Air and most likely would not be the last was a topic that was very carefully not addressed by the crew, who instead diplomatically chose the path of least resistance and let Martin fume in silence with only a gentle pat on the back of commiseration.

But thankfully, _thankfully_, there had been no potential diplomatic incidents on this trip thus far, and the happy tourists had been dropped off in the French Riviera with all luggage in the hands of its rightful owners and the dignity of the Captain still in its rightful, if precariously uncertain place. Then after a rest they had successfully rounded up the exhausted, hung over remnants of a stag do to fly back home to Norway and even managed the trip with a minimum of vomit. The fact that "a minimum of vomit" could now be considered a success in his life was not something Martin cared to think on too deeply, but that was life as a charter pilot for you. A somewhat sketchy landing in Oslo thanks to the sudden winds that took the whole crew by surprise was quickly mended both by an amazingly competent landing at the hands of the shocked Captain and later that evening by the liberal application of the best stew that the city had to offer. Martin had wolfed the stew down ravenously, putting away far more food than a man of his size had any right to and reveling in the sensation of finally having a full belly while basking in the glow of sharing such a meal with, well, _friends_. This trip, hectic and long though it might be, was turning out to be rather lovely after all.

It couldn't last, of course.

Sitting on a tarmac in London, sweating so profusely he had nearly soaked through his shirt, and panting heavily into air so thick it felt like a solid thing, Martin reflected gloomily on just how quickly everything could fall apart. It hadn't even taken much to turn this successful trip into a disaster – one faulty air conditioning circuit combined with a late client, all taken in conjunction with London being hit with the worst heat wave in years was enough to reduce a happy and profitable journey into mess of heat and sweat and rapidly fraying nerves.

_Just once, just one time I would like to go on a flight that doesn't have _something_ go horrendously wrong _Martin thought bitterly to himself as he wiped the pooling sweat off his forehead for the thousandth time. The temperature had been steadily climbing in the tiny flight deck for the last half an hour, and by now Martin was fairly sure that he would be able to cook an egg on the console without any trouble at all. And to make matters worse than the truly awful state they were already in, the painful glare of the sun was at _just _the right angle to blaze directly into the cabin and reflect off of every single instrument the plane possessed, giving Martin the beginnings of what he could tell was going to be a truly monstrous headache. _Damn. Damn, damn, DAMN, why did I agree to miss a van job for this?_

He knew the answer to that question even as he asked it of himself though. He would always choose a flight over a van job, no matter how desperate his financial situation, because he simply could not help himself. He could not help but choose the joy of flying, the freedom of soaring into the skies, the indescribable happiness of lifting off of the heavy earth over the drudgery of lifting and carrying and straining to shift someone else's belongings. True, he needed the money. He _always_ needed the money, no matter how many van jobs he managed to squeeze in between flights and how many meals he skipped. But the call of flight, the siren song of the open sky, it could not be ignored. Especially for a trip such as this one, when there was the promise of a wealthy, happy client who just might tip them generously for their services.

That possibility was rapidly vanishing into the ether. With every passing moment both Martin and Douglas were becoming more and more disheveled, and more irritable as the temperature climbed and their resolve to wait in the plane in case Mr. Fredrickson arrived unexpectedly weakened. If he were to arrive at this moment, he would find an aeroplane that closely resembled an oven, very little prospect of the air conditioning being fixed any time soon, and two pilots who were on the verge of snapping. _What a fine thing this is, being stuck in a tin pot of a plane slowly roasting to death while we wait for a client who might never show up. Wonderful._

"Are you even listening to me Martin?"

With a guilty jump Martin snapped back into the present moment. He had definitely _not_ been listening, but he was damned if he was going to let Douglas know that. "Yes of course I am, I was just thinking about how to adjust the flight plan if we're delayed any further." The lie rolled off his tongue easily, and for once Martin was more than grateful for the years of lonely studying and dreaming that kept such sentences easily at hand. "Why do you ask?"

The raised eyebrow that Douglas sent his way told him that his forced nonchalance was perhaps not quite as convincing as he had hoped it would be. "I was simply mentioning that since the illustrious Mr. Fredrickson shows absolutely no signs of appearing any time soon and I would prefer _not_ to suffer a heat stroke today, it might be wise for us to evacuate this plane sooner rather than later."

Martin sighed, mentally squaring himself for the argument that was inevitably heading his direction. "Douglas, look, I know it's hot and I know that Mr. Fredrickson is late," a snort of derision from his First Officer told Martin what Douglas thought of exactly how "late" Mr. Fredrickson was, but he plowed on gamely anyway, "but we can't just abandon the plane. He could show up at any moment, and with the amount of money he's paying us we need to be ready to leave the second he does arrive."

"Oh for God's sake, Martin" Douglas snapped, clearly at the end of his rope. "Even if Mr. Fredrickson _did_ arrive in the next thirty seconds, we're not going to be flying him anywhere. Do you really think that with all that money he's paying us, he's going to want to fly on a plane with no air conditioning and two pilots who can barely see straight because they're so hot? We're not flying until we get the AC fixed, and that's that."

"But Douglas –" Martin began in his most exasperated voice, but thankfully he was interrupted before an argument could truly begin by Arthur banging his way noisily into the flight deck.

"Hello gents!" he trilled happily, apparently not bothered in the slightest by the ungodly temperature or endless waiting that they were currently being forced to endure. "Any news from mum or Mr. Fredrickson yet?"

From Douglas's careful pause followed by a not particularly patient sigh, Martin could tell that he was struggling not to snap at the altogether too-cheerful man who was beaming away at them without a care in the world. "Oh _yes _Arthur, we've absolutely heard from Mr. Fredrickson, that's why we're still sitting here sweating like pigs. Didn't you know that millionaires only like to fly in planes that are hot enough to cook an egg in?" The frustration and dripping sarcasm in Douglas's voice were nearly tangible, even more so than the usual levels of scorn present in his normal speech.

"Oh brilliant, that's perfect then!" Arthur of course had completely skated past the scathing condescension that had filled Douglas's question, but that was to be expected really. In fact, Martin would have been far more worried if Arthur had been anything but his normal, disgustingly cheery self even in this circumstance. "Can I get you chaps anything?"

_Should I bother correcting – oh, sod it. It's not worth the explanation right now. _With a heavy sigh, Martin leaned back in his seat and finally began to unfasten the jacket that had been stifling him for the last half an hour. While the possibility of their wealthy client arriving at moment had still existed, he had flatly refused to take off the jacket no matter how red his face turned or how lightheaded he became as the temperature rose. If Mr. Fredrickson were to arrive, he was going to be greeted by the Captain of the aeroplane in his full uniform, heat be damned. But even Martin had to admit that the likelihood of the elusive Mr. Fredrickson arriving was fast approaching nil, and he really did feel quite dizzy now in his heavy blazer. His sigh changed to one of pure relief as the jacket slid off and fell down across his seat, and with a chuckle he pushed up his sleeves and loosened his tie for maximum coolness and said "I don't think you can do much for us Arthur, unless you can suddenly fix the AC in the next five minutes. I think we have a bit of tape and some string around here somewhere."

"Oh, brilliant! Where's the tape?" Grin spreading even wider now that he had a helpful mission to accomplish, Arthur whirled around and began spanning the tiny cabin for the supplies he would need to fix the air conditioning. Martin and Douglas both watched in amazement for a moment as he looked around fervently, amazed that even that joke had flown so directly over his head. It shouldn't still surprise them that a grown man would be so completely to any and all forms of sarcasm, but somehow Arthur's honest enthusiasm and naiveté still caught them off guard after all this time.

But when Arthur moved to the flight deck door to begin searching the rest of the plane for AC repair supplies, Martin threw out his arm to grab him by the arm and stop him. Watching Arthur briefly search the flight deck was one thing, but Martin was nowhere near cruel enough to send him on another pointless hunt – not after an off-hand comment by Douglas about how useful an Allen wrench would be for fixing a loose panel had sent Arthur of on an hour-long search of the airfield with absolutely no idea what an Allen wrench was in the first place. The tongue lashing they received from Carolyn for the wasted time and endless jokes _that_ particular incident had incurred had left quite an impression on both their minds, and Martin had absolutely no desire for a repeat of either the protracted search or the vicious scolding on today of all days.

Flinging out his left arm and grabbing at Arthur's sleeve, Martin stopped him with a hasty interjection. "Arthur, no, I was just joking really –"

"Woah Skip, what happened to your arm?"

Martin froze. Time seemed to freeze with him, sending tendrils of ice curling down his spine as his eyes were dragged down, down, down his damnably bare arm to fix in horror on what Arthur was staring at. In the heat of the moment, when his head was spinning and dizzy and muddled from the crushing temperature and air so heavy he could barely catch his breath, he had done the impossible. He had forgotten, just for a moment, that he never, ever rolled up his sleeves. Not when it was this hot, not with his family, not even when he was alone in the privacy of his empty flat did he wear short sleeves or roll back his cuffs or reveal his arms to the world except for the brief moments when he was changing clothes. It was habit by now, a ritual so deeply ingrained into him that he never even thought about it anymore.

But he had forgotten. For the first time in years, even in the back of his mind he had not been carefully weighing how best to hide the shiny scar that was now standing out livid against the skin of his arm that was seeing the light of day for the first time in years. The weight of both Arthur and Douglas's eyes on the scar felt like a burning brand against his flesh, holding him frozen in horror even as he wanted to run and hide and never face the light of day again. This was his worst nightmare, come to life.

After a silence so long and so deafening it felt as though it had lasted a lifetime Martin finally regained the use of his limbs as his brain raced to catch up. A thousand explanations, excuses, and prevarications whirled through his head, each one more pathetic than the last and none plausible enough to convince the man who was watching him with dawning understanding in his eyes. Snatching his hand back from Arthur's arm as though he had been jolted with electricity, he cradled the offending limb to his chest and hastily rolled down the cuff of his sleeve in a laughable attempt to hide it from sight. He turned his attention to the suddenly fascinating instrument panel to fiddle with it quickly, and muttered in his best imitation of nonchalance, "Nothing, it's nothing."

The clear signal to drop it flew right over Arthur's head, sailing into the ether as he frowned in confusion. "But Skip, there's a big scar there, and it looked _really _nasty. Ooo, did you get into a fight? Should I see what you did to the other guy?" His voice was earnest and full of honest concern, and just jaunty enough to rub Martin's already-frayed nerves absolutely raw.

"It was nothing – just an accident. It happened a long time ago, I'm fine now. Really." He held himself absolutely rigid and still as he continued to poke pointlessly at the control panel that needed no attention at all, praying that Arthur would just _drop it _and that this whole conversation would blow over before it even happened.

"Oh well, right-o then. I'll go find that tape then, back in a tick chaps." Arthur turned to exit the flight deck with a jaunty whistle and an entirely indecent bounce in his step, closing the door behind him and leaving silence so thick it was very nearly a physical thing in his wake.

The hush in the tiny deck grew and spread until it filled every corner and space between the two men sitting there. Martin kept his eyes fixed determinedly on the instruments in front of him, heart thumping erratically as he felt a bead of sweat that had nothing to do with the heat roll slowly down his neck to slide uncomfortably under the collar of his shirt. He struggled to control the shaking of his hands and the uneven tempo of his breathing, but it was useless. The panic and fear and resentment at the intrusion into memories he had wanted to leave dead and buried were rising in him, boiling over to leave him utterly shaken and desperate to scream at the world to just _leave him alone._

Douglas's eyes were fixed steadily on Martin as they had been since Arthur's discovery, the weight of their gaze and what it meant for him and his future so heavy it nearly crushed him. Douglas was clever, far too clever for Martin's liking, and he had without a doubt worked out exactly what that jagged, ugly scar stretched out across Martin's wrist meant the moment he had seen it. Martin was too afraid to even look at Douglas, staring instead at his unsteady hands with gloomy certainty of exactly what he would see on the older man's face. Lurking behind the mask of indifference that Douglas had so carefully cultivated would be something new, something dangerous, something that Martin absolutely could not bear to see – pity.

A gentle cough broke the silence of the deck, and Martin braced himself for the inevitable. "Martin," and _oh yes_, there it was. The quiet voice, the careful calm, the benevolent condescension he had heard from every teacher, peer, and supposed friend that he had ever had. He knew with awful certainty and a heart that had plummeted through the very floorboards themselves what was coming next, and he braced himself in vain for the inevitable.

"Listen, Martin –"

"No, Douglas. Just, _no_." Martin cut him off before he could even begin, the panic truly rising now and threatening to overwhelm him as it sent his heart racing so fast it made his head spin wildly out of control. Why couldn't Douglas just leave him alone? Why couldn't _anyone _just leave him alone? "I don't want to talk about it," he continued, the blood roaring in his ears as the shame crashed over him in waves and he nearly choked on the pity and condescension that Douglas must certainly be sending his way. "It was a long time ago, I'm fine now. Just let it go, please."

"Of course Captain," Douglas replied, his voice carefully neutral and grating harshly along every nerve that Martin possessed. He paused slightly before continuing slowly "Martin, if you ever want to-"

But it was too late. There were many things that Martin could tolerate, many things that he could shoulder and endure with all the stoicism expected of a good British man, but the placating tone of Douglas's voice was enough to make the coiled tension and desperation in Martin explode all at once.

"I said I don't want to talk about it!" The shout echoed ragged and broken in a flight deck so quiet the very instruments seemed to be holding their breath. "God, you never listen to me Douglas, not for anything, not even when I really mean it. Well guess what – when I said that I really don't want to talk about this, I bloody well meant it!"

He finally managed to look up and meet the eyes of his First Officer, eyes that were wide with shock at his sudden outburst and the ferocity with which he had spoken. He knew that he should calm down, that he was only making the matter worse by shouting and carrying on like this, but he was angry now, properly angry, and the words poured out of him with force he had not even known he had possessed. "Did you ever think for one second that there was a _reason_ I hadn't said anything to you? I knew this would happen, I knew you would just pity me or try to ask me about it or think that there was something wrong with me or that I'm – that I'm _broken_." He spat out the last word as though it were poison, hating himself for the pathetic futility of them and completely unable to stop himself. "I know it's a hard concept for everyone to grasp, but I'm _fine_. There's nothing wrong with me – I'm fit to fly and I always have been, so don't you _dare_ think otherwise. I don't need your help and I don't want your pity. So for once in your damn life, just do what I'm saying and leave me the hell alone!"

He lunged upwards out of his seat, desperate to escape the overwhelming humiliation of this moment and the crushing shame of his pathetic overreaction. Martin knew that he shouldn't have shouted at them, that he should deal with this like an adult instead of running away, but right now he simply needed to be anywhere but falling to pieces in front of Douglas. He needed to be somewhere that wasn't here, somewhere he could be alone with the memories and fear and shame that had roared back into his life so suddenly that he was left struggling to think and grasping for anything at all to keep him steady. _I can't do this. I can't talk about this. I can't think about this. I can't – I can't – I_

The room spun. Walls closed inwards, the floor loomed up, panels and instruments swam and danced and jolted around him as he staggered clumsily and blindly towards the door of the flight deck. The heat combined with the erratic beat of his heart combined with the stress and fear and panic that was driving him mad all came together to send his head spinning and his limbs flailing as he stumbled and nearly fell flat on his face.

"Martin!"

Douglas reached for him as he fell, but before he could catch him Martin managed to grab hold of the back of his seat to steady himself. He felt as though he would be sick, the churning of his stomach matching the violence of his mind, but he did not want any of Douglas's help. He wanted nothing to do with anyone at the moment, and he certainly did not want Douglas of all people holding him up like a wilting flower who had collapsed in the heat of the sun. His feet nearly gave out from under him again as he tried to stand up and save the tattered remnants of his dignity, but all hope of ever being taken seriously again vanished like a wisp of smoke at the sound of two familiar pairs of feet entering the already too-small cabin.

"What the bloody hell is going on in here?"

Even with his spinning painfully and the world twisting itself before his eyes, Martin could hear the anger and frustration as plain as day in Carolyn's voice. Her rare good humor of the last two days had vanished, unsurprisingly so considering what it cost them to sit waiting on standby on the runway to wait for one customer who had decided to be late without so much as a single phone call of explanation. Martin struggled to stand upright, cursing his fumbling feet and blurry vision that that made him look such a fool in front of the only people who had ever come close to respecting him even a tiny amount. Their tenuous, laughable respect for him had been the only thing he could call his own – he certainly didn't have a nice house, or many possessions, or even friends that treated him as a valuable addition to their lives. All he had was the mostly sarcastic esteem of his coworkers, and now it was gone.

Martin could not find the words he needed to even attempt to deflect the situation before it got any worse, his tongue thick and useless in a mouth gone drier than the desert sands. Unfortunately as he gasped and struggled it was Arthur who decided to explain what on earth could have resulted in the Captain of the aircraft nearly fainting dead away and struggling to stand in an aeroplane hotter than an oven. "Well Mum I was going to fix the air conditioner with some tape but then I saw –"

"Yes thank you Arthur, I'll handle it from here." Douglas interrupted him smoothly. "Carolyn, Martin was just coming to find you to ask about the air conditioning being fixed, but as you can no doubt tell it's close to boiling in here and the heat got the better of him. Are we going to leave any time soon or shall we simply sit and roast like a bunch of chickens instead?"

The glare that Carolyn sent Douglas was withering in its intensity, but Martin practically fainted once more from relief to see it and know that Arthur's story had been successfully averted. "No, as a matter of fact we are _not_ leaving any time soon, which I'm sure you already knew so why you idiots decided to sit and toast in here is absolutely beyond me." She sighed and rubbed a hand over her face, frustration and anger in every line of her body as she said with weary exasperation "Mr. Fredrickson just phoned to tell me that his crucially important negotiations, whatever the hell those are, were extended by three days which means that our stay has been extended by three days as well. We are on standby gentlemen."

"No!" Martin found his voice at last, earning startled looks from the rest of the crew as he stared at Carolyn in horror. "We can't stay for three days! I need to go home for a van job the day after tomorrow – it's been scheduled for months now, I can't possibly miss it." He also could not possibly afford to lose the fee from so large a job as helping a whole family move all of their possessions across town, not the way his bank account was currently standing perilously close to zero. That van job was going to be what fed him for the next several weeks – if he missed while he sat on his hands stuck on standby in London he would starve.

But Carolyn waved off his protest dismissively, barging on ahead as though he had never spoken. "We can stay for three days, and we will. In fact thanks to the heaps of money that Mr. Fredrickson has thrown at us if he asked us to dance a jig wearing hats funnier than yours, we would do it with a smile because it would be the only way we could fix this bloody heap of a plane. We are waiting here, and that's final."

"But Carolyn –" he wailed, beyond the point of caring that his voice was a high-pitched whine. He was still dizzy and afraid and angry, and this was fast turning into one of the very worst days of his entire life. He was entitled to a whine.

Unfortunately, Carolyn did not agree. "But nothing, Martin. We need Mr. Fredrickson, and we are going to cater to his every whim because of it. Besides, we can hardly fly the plane like it is – just look at it, and you! This thing is like a damned oven and my pilot is swooning like a damsel in distress because of it. So _I _am going to pay an absurd amount of money we don't have to fix the air conditioning, _Arthur_ is going to clean this thing when it's no longer a thousand degrees, _Douglas_ is going to find us accommodations, and _you_, Snow White, are going straight to hospital to make sure you don't die on me. I can't afford to hire a pilot I actually have to pay."

A shiver ran down Martin's spine for the second time that horrible afternoon, and he felt the blood drain from his face despite the sweltering heat. "No."

Carolyn's eyebrows arched upward, and she asked in her most dangerously calm tone of voice "Oh really? Pray tell, why not?"

Martin simply shook his head, unable to find the words to express just why he could not bear even the thought of going to a hospital right now. On any other day, at any other time, under any other circumstance he could have swallowed his dread and faced it, but not today. Today of all days when wounds he had thought long healed had been ripped wide open, the mere mention of a hospital with echoing hallways and the weight of memories and the stench of death made his stomach turn so painfully that his knees nearly buckled under him again. But he could not possibly tell them that. He could not tell them that he had nearly died in a hospital by his own hand, and that going back there now would bring back every feeling and ounce of pain he had struggled so hard to move past. And so, he would lie, and pray that his words would be believed.

"I – I'm fine Carolyn really. I think I'm just, er, dehydrated and a little dizzy. I don't need to go to a hospital, really, I just need a good sit down and a bottle of water and I'll be back on my feet. And besides, I really don't fancy sitting in a queue for three hours just to be told that I need a good lie down." His smile was quite likely the least convincing thing in the entire world, but the fact that he was able to manage even that was a small victory. It faded quickly though in the face of Carolyn's disapproval, and vanished entirely when Martin noticed how intently Douglas was watching him.

"I don't give a toss what you fancy Martin, you are seeing a doctor before you fly me and my aeroplane anywhere and that's final. The absolute last thing I need is for you to faint in the middle of the flight and kill us all because you're unconscious on the controls."

"Carolyn," Douglas interjected once more, earning a surprised look from both her and Martin, who had no idea whatsoever what his First Officer was up to "may I make a suggestion? As much as it pains me to say it, I believe that Martin is right about simply being dehydrated and that's certainly not something he needs to waste all that time in a hospital for. There's bound to be loads of local clinics around here that can see him faster, so why doesn't he just go to one of those instead?"

Martin could have kissed him. He had no idea why Douglas was standing up for him like this, especially after what had just happened, but he was almost pathetically grateful for it. Carolyn looked equally puzzled by Douglas's sudden turn of kindness, but she was clearly exhausted and frustrated beyond measure and not interested in dragging out this argument any longer than she had to.

"Fine. If it will get you two berks out of here faster, then by all means ignore my perfectly sound plan to do things your own way as you always do. Now go, get out of my sight. I have more important things to worry about than if my fabulous fainting pilot will collapse on me again." She shooed them away with a dismissive wave of her hands, signaling that the conversation was officially over and turning on her heel to march out of the flight deck with Arthur trotting quickly behind her.

With one final, careful look at Martin as he stood still frozen in horrified misery, Douglas rose slowly and silently from his seat and made his way over to the door of the cabin. It was obvious that he wanted to say something, that he had a thousand questions and comments burning on his lips, but thankfully for the first time Douglas appeared ready to respect Martin's wishes and let the matter be. Finally he departed, leaving Martin alone with the stifling silence. Taking a shaky but deep breath as he had been told a lifetime ago, Martin felt his heartbeat slowly returning to normal as he struggled to get himself back under control. He certainly did _not_ want to go see a doctor – in fact he very much wanted to run and hide and avoid anything at all to do with his the way he had reacted – but he could not run from this. No, he _would _not run from this. Carefully folding his rumpled jacket over his arm with hands that trembled only slightly, Martin squared his shoulders and walked slowly out of the flight deck.

_Time to get this over with._


	9. Chapter 9

Upon further reflection, deciding to brave the heat of the midday sun by walking from the airport to the medical clinic had not been one of Martin's better ideas. In fact, it was very likely one of the _worst_ ideas that Martin had ever had, something that was quite an impressive feat in itself considering his track record of mistakes and failures. The last time he had made a choice this poor had very nearly ended in the worst sort of disaster possible, the kind that still gave him nightmares when the wind roared just so outside of his attic window to remind him of the vicious cross-wind that he'd foolishly believed he would be able to land in, despite knowing the Douglas could have handled the situation infinitely better. Even that seemed like nothing compared to the act of impulsive, willful stupidity this afternoon on the flight deck, which was why he hadn't thought twice about setting out from the airport in search of the local clinic one of the more friendly ticket agents had directed him towards on foot.

It didn't take very long walking with the sun beating ruthlessly on his exposed neck towards the clinic he was beginning to believe might be fictional to realize that he would have to revise his mental list of bad choices to send this one straight to the top. It had certainly _seemed_ like the right thing to do at the time – the ticket agent had assured him with a wide and convincing smile that it was not far at all to the clinic, and a London cab was by no means a luxury that he could afford when he had two feet that would serve him perfectly well. So he had departed with determined step, telling himself that he could more than do with a walk to clear his head of everything that had just happened to him. Even after he had escaped the stifling closeness of the flight deck and the weight of knowing glances and silent understanding, Martin still had felt as though he were fighting for breath, struggling to find his footing in a world that had betrayed him in an instant, frozen still as he was buried under the weight of split-second actions and disastrous consequences that were piling up faster than he could ever hope to manage. A quiet walk and a moment of blessed solitude should have been exactly what he needed to finally shake off the distress that had shaken him to his core.

However, in a fashion that was all too typical for him, his carefully reasoned out and judiciously decided upon plan had been overthrown by one glaringly obvious detail that he had managed to overlook. True, it was not far too the clinic and on any other day he would have made the walk there and even felt the better for it. But today was anything but a normal day. It was in fact one of the most oppressively hot and humid days London had endured in recent memory, so hot that the air itself felt as heavy as a blanket weighing him down and making it difficult to even draw in breath. The adrenaline still pumping through him after his confrontation with Douglas had been enough to convince him that he would be fine walking to see a doctor after very nearly blacking out, but now that he was too far to turn back it was alarmingly clear just how wrong he had been. Trudging through the streets of London under the full glare of the afternoon sun was a far cry from strolling through an air-conditioned airport, and as time dragged on and the journey seemed to stretch into infinity Martin began to fully appreciate the stupidity of his decision. His head had begun to spin slightly again not long ago in addition to the throbbing brought on by heat and pressure and the growing threat of dehydration, and in a moment of horrifying clarity Martin realized that he was very likely on a direct path to a heat stroke.

_Wonderful, absolutely wonderful_, Martin thought to himself bitterly as he wiped the pouring sweat from his eyes for the hundredth time to no avail. _That's exactly what I need to make this godforsaken day complete – to pass out in the middle of a London street because I gave myself a bloody heat stroke_. _Fantastic_. The reflection of the sun off of the entirely too-shiny pavement was nearly blinding in its intensity, and in his muddled disorientation he stumbled on a hidden catch in the sidewalk and came a hair's breadth away from falling flat on his face. He knew that he probably looked absolutely absurd right now as he wandered unsteadily down the street with his face flushed beet red, eyes squinted nearly shut against the glare, and the heavy jacket of his uniform firmly on his shoulders instead of carrying it as any sane person would. But even though he was suffocating under the thick fabric, the disastrous results of removing his jacket before stung too painfully for him to even entertain the idea of removing it again no matter how hot or dizzy he became. The jacket was his armor, its thick weight and reassuringly solid cuffs protecting his most fiercely held and deeply personal secret from the prying eyes of the world. It grounded him, it reassured him, it gave him tangible proof that could be measured in dark blue wool and gold bars that he was _safe_. And so no matter how unbearable the heat became, how light-headed and close to collapse he felt, jacket would stay exactly where it was.

But that didn't mean he had to enjoy it.

_Damn my stubbornness, damn my enormous scar, damn everything about this entire bloody day. It _would _be just my luck to faint on the way to see a doctor for nearly fainting. God, Douglas would never let me hear the end of it._ That was the thought that jarred the most, what made him cringe in horror every time his vision swam or the ground seemed to spin impossibly out from under him – what Douglas would most certainly say if he managed to give himself a heat stroke as a result of his own idiotic and pointlessly prideful decision to go on foot. Two fainting spells in one day? Douglas would have a field day.

Or would he? Even amidst the haze of heat and bitter anger that was clouding his mind, with quiet calm the memory of the way Douglas had so smoothly lied to Carolyn for him broke through to halt his train of self-pity and anxiety. Against all expectations, defying precedent and probability, Douglas had _helped_ him when he had been an easy target for ridicule and humiliation. _Why? What could he possibly hope to gain from helping me? Douglas doesn't do anything without at least three different reasons for it that benefit him, but he helped me even after he figured it all out. Was he looking for leverage to use on me later? Did he think I would have a total breakdown if Carolyn found out too? _Why _on earth did he do it?_

Suddenly a thought occurred to him that was both tempting in its simplicity and yet hardly to be believed because of it. _Was he – was he sincerely trying to help me with no ulterior motive?_ The possibility was nearly enough to stop Martin in his tracks in shock, but as he remembered the uncharacteristic solemnity with which Douglas had offered an ear in case he wanted to talk, Martin quickly discovered that his absolute certainty in Douglas's motivations was wavering.

_Was I too harsh?_ And with that thought, that question, that moment of clarity and retrospection, anger was swiftly replaced with horrified, consuming guilt.

But thankfully before he could entirely sink into a pit of shame and self-loathing for hasty words, salvation appeared through the haze. He had very nearly missed it in his distraction, but there before him was the clinic he had been searching for all along, a beacon of rest and help and blessed coolness. It was neither the largest nor most impressive of structures, hardly distinguishable from the buildings that surrounded it, and yet Martin could not have been more grateful to see it had it been the grandest and most luxurious of palaces. Guilt temporarily forgotten in favor of overwhelming relief, Martin hurried over to the clinic as quickly as he was able and sighed in absolute bliss as he was greeted with a blast of cold air by the opening door.

The relief, however, was just as short-lived as it was sweet. Even as he took the first deep breath he had been able to manage since he ventured out into the oppressive heat and blinked the confusion out of his eyes, his heart plummeted as he took in the sight of a tiny clinic that was packed to capacity. The waiting room was jammed full of patients in varying states of exhausted frustration, every seat taken and the walls lined with people standing and waiting to see a doctor. From the look of things most everyone seemed to be here for reasons quite similar to his, although no one in the sea of red and overheated faces appeared to quite match him in his angry flush and labored breathing. Just the sight of the overfull waiting room and the thought of the wait that he would have to endure for an extremely brief and unhelpful appointment almost sent him right back out the door, but the idea of leaving the air conditioning to return to the desert-like heat was enough to make him shudder. Even if he had to wait for hours, at least he would be waiting somewhere that was cool with a possibility of eventually sitting down. With a sigh of resignation, Martin squared his shoulders and trudged over to the reception desk to perform that most uniquely British of civic duties – to quietly and without hope of speedy service join an orderly queue.

An hour filled with screaming babies and loudly quarreling senior citizens later, Martin's carefully maintained stoicism that had been bred true throughout the generations was beginning to wear precariously thin. There were many things that he could endure without a word of complaint – in fact the number was far more than the average person could even dream of – but a solid hour of having an upset infant scream into his ear was not one of them. Even the brief flash of triumph he had felt after successfully claiming the luxuries of both a cup of water and an empty seat for himself had rapidly faded as time wore on with no sign whatsoever of seeing any sort of doctor. And if his physical discomfort and lingering sickness were not enough to make this experience wretched enough, the total lack of entertainment or distraction of any sort meant that his mind had done nothing but focus endlessly on his rapidly growing guilt for the way he had spoken to Douglas. What had begun as a quietly nagging concern in the back of his mind had exploded into a monster that tore at his conscience as he replayed their conversation over and over again in his head and obsessed over every minute detail. Finally, he could bear it no longer. If he didn't apologize to Douglas soon the guilt and paranoia would consume him, and he certainly did not need the added baggage of his conscience weighing him down on top of everything else that was troubling him today.

But then, even as he was reaching for his phone to compose an apology to Douglas, Martin's world was set on end for the second time that day. It was a fluke, honestly it was – the waiting room was so loud with the chatter of patients and the cries of upset children that it was pure luck that Martin even caught the soft voice drifting gently over to where he sat. It was not a loud voice, nor a particularly distinctive one, and yet from the very first word that travelled across the room it pierced Martin to his very core, transfixing him where he sat and freezing him to stone in shock. The world seemed to drop away from him, the clamor of the room vanishing and leaving behind only the sound of a voice he knew as well as his own and that he thought he would never hear again. It was impossible, ridiculous even, but there was no mistaking that laugh, that gentle murmur, that teasing good humor meant to soothe and reassure whoever heard it. Feeling as though he were being dragged against his will and yet utterly unable to do anything else, Martin lifted his eyes in disbelieving wonder to look across the office for the source of the voice that could not possibly be there. Because of all the endless possibilities, all of the random chances, all of the most improbable coincidences that he could have ever dreamed of, stumbling on John Watson in a London medical clinic was the last one that he would have ever dared to imagine.

_It can't…it can't be…_

But it was, it absolutely without a shred of doubt _was_. John was there, alive and well and exactly as Martin remembered him – well, almost exactly. He was older, certainly, grey beginning to creep stealthily into sandy blond hair, and more worn that Martin had ever seen him, with new lines of stress and care etched deeply into a face weathered by hardship. He held himself differently too, his easy demeanor replaced by careful self-control, casual confidence, and a spine of steel. Only his smile appeared to have remained unchanged by his years away, still warm and caring and so genuine it seemed to reach out to touch everyone in the room with personal tenderness. No matter what had happened to him, what he had endured to harden and temper his spirit like steel in the fire, that it seemed would never change.

John had not yet noticed Martin where he sat frozen in amazement as he spoke laughingly with the woman at the front desk – and why should he after all? Martin was just another patient again, just one more face in the crowd that would come and go in passing and be forgotten just as easily. John obviously had left Martin behind in his life, moved on and away to a new one that held no ties to the old whatsoever. A stab of pain from a wound once thought long forgotten returned with the memory of a heartfelt message never received, a friendship abandoned, and promises left to wither empty and unfulfilled. Looking at John now, seeing him smiling and happy and utterly unaware of the presence of a man he had once called friend, Martin could not for the life of him say whether the emotions that stormed through him were anger, bitterness, joy, relief, or some combination of them all. He was hurt, he was afraid, he was taken entirely aback, and deep inside of him there burned a fierce and painful spark of happiness that despite his worst fears John was _alive_.

_Oh God, what do I _do? Indecision tore at Martin, paralyzing him for what felt like an eternity. He had never been in this situation before, whatever this situation could be called, and in spite of the hundred possible choices that were flitting through his mind faster than he could catch them, he had no idea what action he should take. Should he stay silent and let John pass him by, leaving things exactly as they stood and living the rest of his life wondering what could have been? Should he take the risk and approach, full of trepidation and anxiety, and run the risk of making a total fool of himself? Would John even remember him?

The possibility of being forgotten, of receiving nothing but a blank stare and an empty, polite smile from the man who had saved his life was nearly enough to make Martin turn tail and flee, but something kept him rooted to the spot. Something he could not define, some inner courage or determination that he had not known he possessed calmed his trembling hands and steadied him even in the face of the terror that he was feeling. He had promised, all those years ago, that he would tell John if he became a captain, and a captain he was. He needed to move on from that portion of his life just as John had, he needed closure and an answer to the unanswered question that still lingered from his past. He needed to do this. Taking a deep, shaky, fortifying breath, Martin stood from his seat and began to walk carefully across the office to where John was still standing and speaking with the receptionist. He almost turned on his heel and ran several times, fear taking over his brain and telling him that whatever satisfaction he was looking for wasn't worth the potential humiliation and disappointment, but his sudden impetus kept him walking despite the panic that kept seizing him. So what if John didn't remember him? Martin would speak his piece and move on, and be none the worse for it. He might even come out of it better.

Buoyed along by this newfound sense of fatalistic determination, Martin found himself suddenly all the way across the office and standing as yet unnoticed next to the reception desk. He had lost all hope of stopping or turning back by now, and so with the feeling that he were taking the first step off of a cliff into unknown darkness Martin cleared his throat and began hesitantly, "Um, excuse me?" Both John and the receptionist paused their conversation to turn and look at Martin, and the combination of their scrutiny and the blank non-recognition on both their faces was almost enough to stop his heart. But it was far too late to halt the conversation now, and Martin took another deep breath before continuing on in a rush "Er, hello Jo- I mean Dr. Watson. Hi. Um, you probably don't remember me but, well, I was one of your…patients a couple of years ago and I just wanted to tell you –"

But before he could get any further John's eyes lit up in sudden recognition and a smile bloomed on his face. "Martin!" he exclaimed happily, interrupting the rapid flow of Martin's words. "Of _course _I remember you, my God it's so good to see you! How are you?"

Still smiling, John moved in with open arms for a hug. It was a familiar gesture, one they had shared before in years gone by before distance and separation had come between them, offered freely and unthinkingly as a means of support and commiseration and genuine happiness. But now, so far away from where they had once been, it no longer felt right. Martin drew back slightly, involuntarily shying away from a hug that he would have once accepted unthinkingly and returned just as gladly. He did not pull away in anger, or disgust, or to hurt John, but simply because it was natural. People didn't hug him, not anymore.

A brief look of hurt flashed over John's face as the hug was denied, quickly masked and buried under another smile that was perhaps a touch more forced than the one before it. Guilt flooded through Martin for the way he instinctually reacted, but he swallowed it down and plowed forward in a conversation that had veered wildly off-course in a matter of moments. "I, um, I'm ok. I mean, I'm here, obviously, so I'm not great but mostly, in life, I'm ok. I'm fine." He cringed, face flushing at how horrendously awkward his words were. A similar conversation came echoing through the years, the words once insincerely spoken in a darkened hospital room ringing just as false now as they had then. Desperate to move the conversation along, he asked "How are you?"

"I'm good, really good. I can't believe you're here, what a coincidence!" The bright and cheery tone remained, but a note of confusion and concern had crept into John's face and voice. He looked at Martin quizzically before glancing down at the reception book briefly. "Why _are_ you here Martin, is everything alright?"

It was the question that Martin had been dreading without even realizing it, the question that he had been avoiding answering all afternoon and certainly did not want to address now when it felt like his emotions were precariously balanced on the edge of collapse. Because truthfully, everything was _not_ alright. This whole day had been one disaster after another, each new revelation and confrontation ruthlessly stripping away the layers of protection and confidence he had so carefully built over the last few years to leave him gasping and trembling and ready to fall apart at the slightest touch. Issues he had thought long buried were erupting to the surface so quickly that he could not possibly handle them all; first the discovery of the secret he had hoped to keep hidden from the people whose respect he so craved, then his near collapse that had prompted him into this ridiculous journey in the first place, and now this. Now he was faced with the man he had trusted more than anyone in his entire life, the man who had literally saved him from himself, the man who had abandoned him with barely a word of goodbye to leave him wondering if the worst had happened. No, everything was most definitely far from alright.

But it would not do to say any of that. Bringing up the ready-made false smile he had so perfected that it had become a natural reflex, he did what he was best at – he put on a brave face and pretended that everything was fine. "Yes, I'm ok. I just, er, I overexerted myself in the heat is all and got a little dizzy. Carolyn insisted I come in while we were stopped over, so here I am. I'm fine though, really."

John's brows creased in concern and no small amount of confusion, but it was obvious that he did not want to press Martin unduly for any more details. "Yes, well, that's been happening a lot today. We're a bit pressed, as you can tell." He paused, then sent Martin the familiar, reassuring smile that sent a stab of nostalgia and regret flooding through him. "Hey, I've got a little break right now, but why don't I take you in to look you over so you don't have to wait any longer? Then maybe we could talk, do some catching up. How does that sound?"

The idea of being alone in an exam room with John again, just as he had been all those years ago when his life had fallen apart the first time, filled him with unthinking, unreasoning panic. Without even realizing what he was saying, he found himself stammering nervously, "Um, no thank you." John's eyes widened in surprise, and Martin took an uncertain breath before continuing as calmly as he could manage. "I mean, I think I'll be up soon, and I don't want to impose on you or take time away from your break. I'll be fine, I swear. Thank you though."

The look of hurt that flashed over John's face was more pronounced this time, lingering even as he smiled sadly and said with quiet resignation, "Yes. Of course, it was silly of me to suggest. Besides, I know that Dr…" He paused, looking quickly down at the appointment book and then back up at him to say with a strained smile "Sawyer will take great care of you."

"It was nice to see you." The words were small, sad, and insincere. Martin hated himself for them.

But John simply smiled once more, and it did not even come close to reaching his eyes. "It was. Take care, Martin."

John turned and walked quickly down the hallway, and as he vanished Martin could not help but think that he had made some sort of horrible mistake.

* * *

><p>Half an hour of distracted waiting later, Martin finally found himself sitting inside an exam room to at last see a doctor. If the turmoil of emotions brought up by his encounter in the waiting room had accomplished anything besides sending his head spinning and making him nearly sick to his stomach with distress, at the very least it had taken his mind away from the looming prospect of being examined by a medical professional who would very likely probe him for the reason he had fainted. But sitting on the exam table now and fiddling with the cuff of the jacket he still had not removed, Martin could feel his heartbeat elevating with every passing moment as the inevitable drew ever nearer. By the time the sound of footsteps approaching the room he was in echoed down the hallway, Martin had worked himself into a state of nervous panic at the mere thought of having to speak with a doctor, much less be examined by one. What if the doctor discovered his scar? Would they ask what had caused it? Oh God, he couldn't lose his license for this, could he?<p>

Things had spiraled so quickly out of control in his own mind that when a pretty young woman carrying a clipboard entered the room, Martin had almost convinced himself that he would at the very least lose his pilot's license or possibly even be institutionalized as a result of this appointment. But thankfully Dr. Sawyer, as she introduced herself with a quick smile and handshake, did not seem particularly interested in cross-examining his psychological history at this time, instead focusing in on what had brought him to the office in the first place. It was clear that she was pressed for time and could not spare much on him, a fact for which Martin was profoundly glad as they moved through the standard questions with gratifying quickness. She was not skimming through the appointment by any means, but time was most definitely of the essence as she checked first his vision and then reflexes with practiced efficiency. A sticky moment came however when she reached for the blood pressure meter, indicating that he should remove his jacket and roll up his sleeves so that she could wrap the meter around his upper arm. Panic exploded in his chest, and he very briefly considered bolting from the room to avoid taking off his jacket and exposing his wrist for the second time in one day. But Dr. Sawyer was watching him expectantly, cuff in hand, and so with sinking heart he peeled off the heavy jacket and slowly rolled up his right sleeve while praying fervently that she would not ask for the other one as well.

As though she could feel the tension growing in the room, Dr. Sawyer broke the silence as she wrapped the cuff around Martin's arm and began inflating it with ever-tightening pressure. "So, you know Dr. Watson then?"

Martin started, looking over at her with wide eyes. "Excuse me?"

Her eyebrows rose at his reaction, clearly taken aback at how startled he was by such a simple question. "Oh, I just saw you two talking in the reception area and it seemed like you knew each other. Are you friends?"

Mouth suddenly dry, heart suddenly pounding, Martin swallowed heavily and wondered how on earth he could respond. _It's an innocent enough question, just answer it casually and she'll forget about it. _"I…I suppose we were. I was, well, I was a patient of his. A long time ago."

_Damn it._

Dr. Sawyer paused, taking her eyes off the gauge to send him a curious look. Martin bit his tongue angrily, cursing his inability to tell a decent lie and just brush the question off nonchalantly. She was obviously intrigued and waiting for further explanation, so Martin sighed and continued "Well, we sort of…lost contact a few years back. I guess you could say we drifted apart."

The pressure was released from the cuff with an accompanying snort from the doctor, her eyes rolling slightly as she watched the needle in the gauge and muttered under her breath. "Fancy that. Seems to be a habit with him."

Now it was Martin's turn to raise his eyebrows in surprise, looking over at the unassuming, friendly looking doctor in shock. A moment later she seemed to realize what she had said, and a look of horror stole over her face as she looked up to meet Martin's eyes in dismay. "Oh my God, please forget I just said that. That was _horrendously _unprofessional, I'm so sorry."

She clearly wanted him to not press the issue, but Martin could not help himself. Not after a comment like that. "Wait, what do you mean it's a habit with him?" he asked curiously, both needing the answer and dreading it.

She shook her head reluctantly, eyes practically begging him to drop it. "Please forget it, I never should have said anything. I don't want to speak ill of a colleague and Dr. Watson is an exceptional doctor. Forget I said anything."

But it was Martin's turn to beg now, the need to know what she had meant consuming all else. "Dr. Sawyer, please" he said quietly, praying that he would be able to convince her to answer him. "John and I were friends once, very close friends, and since we drifted apart I have no idea what happened to him. We lost contact when he was in the army, and I just…I want to know why." At any other moment he would have hated the smallness of his voice and the note of desperation that had entered it, but he could tell straight away that his honest plea had convinced her. She sighed heavily, putting down the gauge and looking him the in the eye with resignation.

"Dr. Watson…John is a good man. A brilliant man actually, one of the kindest, most generous people I've ever met." She smiled, small and rueful, caught up in a memory that was both happy and painful at once. "He's willing to give anything for people who need it, and while that's one of the things that makes him such an excellent doctor, it also means that he can get – well caught up in things sometimes. Ever since I've known him, even when there were more important things for him to worry about, he's always been caught up with Sherlock and it's like he can't spare his attention for anything else."

The silence that filled the room echoed in Martin's ears. "Sherlock?" he asked, his voice so strange and distant it should have belonged to someone else.

"Yes, Sherlock Holmes." The unusual name was spoken with a sigh of frustration, irritation, and countless other emotions that Martin could not even begin to name. "His...flatmate. Friend. Colleague – honestly I don't even know what they are, but I do know that John is willing to drop everything and run when Sherlock calls. Sherlock needs him apparently, and that means that John will be there for him. Always."

Head spinning, throat closing, eyes stinging, Martin could only choke out one word. "Oh."

Dr. Sawyer smiled brightly, obviously glad to move away from the topic. "Now, let's just forget I said all of that, shall we? Moving back to you, I'm fairly sure that you just managed to get yourself pretty badly dehydrated…"

The rest of the exam passed in a blur. He nodded at the appropriate moments, hummed out agreements when Dr. Sawyer told him to drink more water and take it easy, even flashed an unconvincing smile when she said goodbye with a look of concern and a gentle hand on his shoulder, but in truth his mind was a thousand miles away. John really _had_ moved on, totally and completely, moved on so far as to find someone new that had taken Martin's place entirely. Sherlock was John's friend now. Sherlock needed John now. And John was willing to give anything, whatever it was, to help him. Martin was yesterday's news.

Any thoughts of potentially speaking to John again vanished. If there was one thing that Martin had become adept at, it was recognizing when he was neither needed nor wanted and removing himself as quietly as possible to avoid embarrassing himself further. He stood and put on his jacket slowly, pain and regret filling him as he felt the door closing on his friendship with John forever. It would be best if he hurried out of the office as quickly as he could to avoid seeing John and starting any awkward conversations that neither of them wanted to have. Ducking his head and squaring his shoulders, he slipped out of the exam room and nearly ran down the hallway and across the waiting room towards the front doors that promised escape from the mess he had someone tangled himself in. And if he thought he heard his name being faintly called as he strode through the doors with tears burning in his eyes, well, he was probably just imagining things.


	10. Chapter 10

One ring.

_What? Who on earth?_

Second ring.

_Who could be calling me right now? Oh it's an unknown number._

Third ring.

_Damn it's probably a van job or something. I should answer it._

Fourth ring.

_I should, I need the money. I should. I – oh sod it. Not today. I can't do it today._

Fifth ring.

Sixth ring.

Seventh –

* * *

><p><strong>Incoming text message<strong> (18:24 17/4)  
><strong>From<strong>: Unknown number

Martin? Is this you? It's John.

**Draft** (Deleted)

Oh God

**Draft** (Deleted)

Why are you talking to me?

**Sent message** (18:30 17/4)  
><strong>To:<strong> Unknown number

Yes, it's me. How did you get my phone number?

**Incoming text message** (18:32 17/4)  
><strong>From:<strong> Unknown number

It was on your forms from the clinic. Sorry if that's kind of…creepy. I really wanted to get hold of you though.

**Sent Message** (18:35 17/4)  
><strong>To:<strong> Unknown number

No, it's ok. Did you need something?

**Incoming text message** (18:36 17/4)  
><strong>From:<strong> Unknown number

I was hoping we could talk. I feel bad that we didn't get more of a chance earlier.

**Draft** (Deleted)

Why?

**Draft** (Deleted)

But I'm not Sherlock, why do you care?

**Draft** (Deleted)

What do we have to talk about?

**Sent message** (18:42 17/4)  
><strong>To:<strong> Unknown number

Um, I guess that would be ok. I'd like to talk too. Where do you want to meet?

**Incoming text message** (18:44 17/4)  
><strong>From:<strong> Unknown number

There's a pub across the street from the clinic. Would that work?

**Sent text message** (18:46 17/4)  
><strong>To:<strong> John

That sounds fine. I can be there in half an hour. See you soon.

* * *

><p>The pub was too familiar. Granted, all pubs felt oddly similar some way that could not really be defined, but today was special. Today, the chatter of the patrons in a cozy London pub was not welcoming, the dark and homely interior was not comforting, and even the prospect of a much-needed pint could not reassure Martin. It was all too sickeningly reminiscent of a day that was long past, the day when Martin had been left so very alone once more. The trembling anticipation that filled him now was born of fear instead of excitement, nervousness at the prospect of speaking with John leaving him distracted and upset even as he stepped into the pub and blinked against the darkness there. So many years had passed, but nothing had changed. Not really.<p>

When his vision finally adjusted Martin scanned the room quickly to see if John had beaten him there. He immediately felt out of place as he did so, seeing just how much he stood out in his uniform loaded down with gold braid in a room full of casual and working class patrons. There were already several eyes fixed on him where he stood awkwardly in the doorway, picking absently on the suddenly too-shiny braid on his sleeve and thanking whatever power had given him the idea to take his hat off before coming here even if he had not had time to change out of his uniform. Considering some of the looks and raised eyebrows that he was getting as it was, he probably would have been laughed out of the pub altogether. Thankfully although the attention that he was attracting was rapidly making him feel so nervous that he wanted to bolt from the room, it was not entirely in vain. After an awkward moment that lasted a lifetime in the space of a few heartbeats, Martin saw that John had in fact reached the pub before he did and had laid claim to a table on the other side of the room. John had spotted him as well as he hesitated by the door, and was waving him over with a smile on his face and a pint already sitting on the table in front of him. Swallowing around the lump of nerves that had suddenly risen in his throat, Martin smiled and waved awkwardly in return and began to work his way across the already crowded room to where John was sitting. The usual litany of doubt and anxiety had begun the instant he saw John's familiar and yet somehow impossibly different face in the crowd, and no matter how diligently he tried to clamp down on the voice in his head it continued to whisper into his ear with vicious persistence

_You should never have agreed to this. You shouldn't have come. You shouldn't be talking to him. He _left _you behind, he's got a proper friend that doesn't need so much damn hand-holding. He's probably just going to tell you not to bother him again, that he never wants to see you again. Now that's he's found someone new he realized how pathetic you are. He doesn't care._

_No, _another voice whispered, quieter than the first but far steadier and less frantically desperate. _John wouldn't do that, no matter what happened. Besides, he contacted_you_ didn't he? He went out of his way for this, he obviously wants to say something important. Calm down, or you'll never be able to talk to him._

The room yawned immense and immeasurable before him as he pushed his way through the crowd, mumbling apologies for every trodden-on foot and accidental shove and praying that he would not repeat his last pub adventure by pouring a drink all over himself and everyone around him. But apparently inner emotional turmoil was some form of previously undiscovered cure for clumsiness, as Martin was far too wrapped up in his mental debate to overthink the simple act of walking through a crowd. True, there was a stepped on foot here and there, and he did accidentally bump into a man who was simply trying to enjoy a pint with his girlfriend, but no disasters rained down on him in his trek across the bar and that was very nearly cause for celebration in itself. Finally he reached the tiny table that John had managed to procure amidst the crowd, possibly by means of either witchcraft or brute force, and slid into the chair waiting for him with a relieved sigh.

"Evening Martin, glad to see you made it" John laughed as Martin settled into his seat. "Sorry about the crowd, I had no idea it would be so busy in here."

"It's uh, it's fine. Is it always like this?"

John glanced around the room quickly, taking in the crowd of people packed together by the bar clamoring for drinks and the crush of patrons angling to get one of the few chairs left in the room. "Goodness no, that's why I picked it. It's usually nice and quiet in here for an after-work pint, but I think since this place actually has air conditioning people are escaping from their flats for a little bit. Can't say I blame them, it's terrible back at mine."

Martin nodded silently, fidgeting once more with the braid on his sleeve and wondering desperately how on earth to have this conversation. There were fifty things he wanted to say that were all jostling for position in his mind, and yet he could not find a way to broach a single one of them. John seemed to notice his hesitancy and nervousness with the ease of a man who regularly steers delicate conversations, and he smiled warmly in a way that was so achingly familiar it made Martin's eyes burn slightly. "Care for a pint? I'll get the first round if you like."

A pint certainly sounded more than welcome at the moment, but Martin knew just how low his alcohol tolerance was on a normal day much less one as long and stressful as today had been. The _last_ thing he needed was to get drunk while talking with John – one pint too many and all the things that were better left unsaid were liable to come spilling out into the open. As refreshing as a drink would be, it wasn't worth the risk. "Um thanks, but I don't think so" he answered with a shake of his head. "I should probably stick to water after, you know, everything that's happened today."

John looked slightly disappointed, but he nodded amiably all the same. "Yes, you're absolutely right. Silly me, I shouldn't have suggested it."

Silence descended once more. Martin could tell already that this conversation, and the meeting in general, was heading towards disaster. The awkward silences and uncomfortable fidgeting that kept sprouting between them was difficult to navigate in the extreme, and it was clear to Martin that the easy friendship they had once shared was long gone. There had been a time when shared quietness had been comfortable, when fidgeting had vanished with happy comfort, when Martin and John had not needed to worry about how best to speak to each other. That time was past now, and the years in between had done their friendship no favors.

Still, John was going to make a valiant effort of it nonetheless. He took a quick swig of his pint for fortification, and then smiled ruefully at Martin with only the slightest trace of discomfort. "Sorry about having to rush off like that at work. I –well you could see that we were more than a little swamped."

The smile that Martin gave him in return was very nearly genuine. "Yeah, I could tell. Is it always that crazy?" he asked.

"Oh God no, not at all. Lord, that would be _terrible_." John shuddered slightly at the thought, then shook his head. "No, it's just this damn heat wave we've been having the last couple of days. Most people can handle it for a day or two, but when it goes on like this you start to see young kids and the elderly and the like starting to get sick. And well, a lot of the time we just don't have the resources to handle it all. We get slammed, and we just have to run to deal with it." He took a long swig of his pint with a grateful sigh. "But anyway, enough about me. How are you doing? Feeling any better?"

"I suppose so, yes. Getting out of the heat helped I think, and I made sure to do everything that Dr. Sawyer told me to, with drinking water and resting and everything."

John smiled fondly at some private reminiscence at the mention of her name, and Martin wondered briefly just what his relationship with Dr. Sawyer really was. "Oh that's right, you were with Sarah. Did she take good care of you?"

The memory of their strange conversation intruded suddenly, but Martin did his best to shrug it aside and continue the conversation as intended. "Oh yes she was very, uh, nice."

"I don't doubt it, she's a fantastic doctor. You two didn't talk _too_ much about me and all of my dirty little secrets, I hope?" he asked with a laugh and a knowing smile, obviously thinking nothing of his offhand comment.

Martin did his best not to react or respond out of turn, mustering up a small smile to cover his surprise that John had accidentally stumbled so close to the truth. But even this effort was not enough to fool John, and his eyes narrowed slightly at the strain around Martin's mouth, the slight jerk of his hands, and the surprise in his eyes. Apparently, starling new perceptiveness was another new trait he had picked up during their time apart.

"Yes well," he continued slowly, "I'm glad you're feeling better. And I really am glad to see you again after all this time. How have you been?"

"I've been fine I guess. I work a lot, but I enjoy it. Mostly."

"That's good, really good. Do you still work for that tiny airline you started at? Did you move up in the ranks at all?"

Martin hesitated, emotions at war within him. Did he still want to tell John after all this time? It had been so long, so _very _long, and what should have been the most exciting announcement of his entire life had become so tangled up and twisted by the passing years that he did not even know how to begin. He had been carrying this around inside of him for years, shouting it out to a world that would not listen and yet unable to tell the one person who mattered most. The echo of an automated email came whispering through the years, striking a bitter echo within him and springing words he had never meant to say to his lips.

"No. I mean, I don't work there anymore. It was terrible, really terrible, so I got another job as soon as I could. It wasn't very soon, but well, I mean it was as soon as I could manage." He was babbling. He didn't want to say it. But he needed to say it – he needed to move past this and finally move on. He needed to let it go. Taking a deep breath, he braced himself. "Well anyway, I work for a different airline now. It's a charter company called MJN Air. And, well, I'm…I'm the Captain."

John blinked in surprise. "Captain?" A smile spread over his face, lighting it up and removing five years from him immediately. "Oh my God Martin, that's wonderful! A proper Captain, just like you always wanted. Oh, I'm so proud of you – when did this happen? Why didn't you –"

"I tried to tell you." John fell silent, smile slipping off his face, mouth hanging open in surprise. "When it happened, I tried to tell you. Just like you said I should, before you left." He paused, swallowing heavily. "The day I got hired, I was over the moon about it. I never thought I would get the job, I even thought during the interview that I wouldn't get it. But I _did_ get it, and you know what the first thing I did was? Even before I called my mum, even before I told anyone else, I ran home so I could sit down and email _you_. Because you said that I should tell you. Because even though we hadn't talked for so long, I thought that you would still care. I emailed you, and I got – I got an automated response back. A minute later, I got a damned auto-reply because your email address didn't exist anymore. And suddenly, I wasn't even happy anymore. Because you were gone, gone for good this time, and you hadn't even bothered to say goodbye."

John was staring, stunned by Martin's speech, and after a moment to collect himself he began quietly "Martin, I –"

But there was no stopping Martin now that he had begun, not for anything. "No, John. No, I need to say this now. You _left_ me, you left to go look for adventure thousands of miles away, and you didn't even email me back. I tried so hard to be supportive, to be a good friend, to understand that you needed to go, but it hurt _so _much. You were the only friend I had, John. And then you vanished, and I was all alone again, and I had to struggle through like nothing was wrong. I still have to struggle through like nothing's wrong. I've managed, and I'm better, but it hurts. And now…"

_And now you've moved on. Now you're happy and good and I still haven't managed it._

The angry accusation in his voice was difficult to hear, but not nearly so painful as the hurt and betrayal and sorrow that he could not possibly hide now. He didn't care how angry or broken or desperate he sounded, because he _was_. He hurt more than he had ever realized before, hurt so badly that it was a physical ache in his chest that he had shoved aside for so long that he had grown accustomed to it.

For his part, John looked as though Martin had just punched him in the gut. He sat back heavily in his chair, eyes wide and staring, face stricken with sadness and shame and regret. At any other time Martin would have been horrified to be the cause of such pain in another person, especially one that he cared for, but now a tiny part of himself that he was not proud of whispered its exultation that John at last had some idea what he had done.

John was silent. He stared down at the pint that was slowly leaving ring of water on the wood of the table, caught up in the slow drip of droplets down the side of the glass. The noise of the pub grew to fill in the space between them, the happy chatter of the cheerful patrons a bitter counterpoint to the gaping silence at their table. Finally, he looked up to meet Martin's gaze, face full of regret and eyes older than any Martin had ever seen.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered, voice barely audible in the clamor of the room. "I – I don't know what else I can say, but I am so very sorry Martin."

Fire burned suddenly in Martin's eyes, and he swallowed painfully around the lump that had taken up residence in his throat. Martin knew that he was sorry, he could see it written all over John's face and body in the lines of worry and sadness and the slump of his shoulders that spoke more eloquently than words ever could. But being sorry did not change the past, nor did it answer any of the hundred questions that Martin still longed to ask. He needed to know, to have the great uncertainty and doubt removed from his life once and for all. When John still did not speak, Martin swallowed painfully and asked the one question that had haunted his sleepless nights and endless hours of self-doubt and miserable loneliness.

"Why? Why did you stop emailing me?"

"I – I don't know. I know that's not an answer, that it's not what you wanted to hear, but I don't. It's so hard to, to explain what it's like over there." He sighed heavily, clearly struggling to find the words. "I thought, well I thought that I would just be helping people, saving lives, that sort of thing. I thought that I would make a difference. But really, no one can make a difference. Every day might be your last, and all you can do is struggle through it and hope you come out alive on the other end. I thought that I'd be at a base or in a field hospital or something, but we were so short of people that I had to go out into the field with patrols and –"

The words died, silence falling once more. John was staring down into his pint for inspiration, and when he spoke again his words were so quiet that Martin could barely catch them. "I did my best," he said, the words an assurance and affirmation for a man who did not believe them. "I did my best to save everyone that I could. But there's only so much you can do, when there's bullets everywhere and bombs going off and men dying all around you. You only have two hands, you know? You want to save everyone, but you _can't_. And soon enough it's nothing but blood and sand and your friends dying under your hands and there's _nothing_ you can do but watch. And that's all you know after a while. It's the only thing that matters."

Martin's anger melted away slowly under the quiet stream of John's words, sorrow creeping in on delicate feet to take its place. "John, I – I had no idea" he murmured, unsure of what else he could possibly say.

"Of course you didn't, why would you? Cause that's the thing, see?" he asked, face earnest and pleading for Martin to understand what he was trying to explain. "That's what your world turns into, but you have to keep up a good face, a brave face for everyone at home. You can't tell them that you dream about explosions and worry that you'll get caught in the next one. They'd just worry more and it'd be worse for everyone. You can't say all the things you want to say, so you just look for something safe to talk about, whatever that is. I knew you were worried, and I didn't want to make it worse. But somehow…somehow that _was_ worse because eventually I started running out of safe things. What was there for me to say, anymore?"

Another pause, this time to take a much needed swig of beer, before John was speaking again with subdued words tinged with years of regret and remorse. "I shouldn't have let it happen. I shouldn't have. There are a lot of things in my life that I'm not proud of, a lot of things that I regret, and that is up at the top of the list. I hate that I let you slip away, and I hate that it was my fault. It just got too hard as time went on and then they must have disabled my email address after I got shot –"

"_What_?"

There was a moment of surprised stillness as John looked at him questioningly, until recognition dawned on his face and he sighed. "Oh. Right."

"You were _shot_?" The idea seemed impossible to Martin. John, shot? With a bullet? But he seemed _fine_. Here he was, hale and hearty and full of – well certainly not good cheer at the moment, but he certainly had been cheery earlier before the conversation had taken this turn. And he had seemed in entirely good health and spirits when Martin had spied him at the clinic, even healthier and more alive than when Martin had known him a lifetime ago. How could he possibly have been shot? It seemed impossible.

"Yes, I was. That's why I got sent home, and why I think you couldn't get hold of me. I got invalided home because I got shot right here" he tapped himself gently on the left shoulder with a small and rueful smile. "And well, there were complications, and then my damn leg started to act up so badly I could barely walk anymore" another gentle tap accompanied this statement, this time on his right leg "so after enough time in hospital they sent me on home."

Martin was reeling. "What, how – how did it happen?" he stammered.

John shrugged ruefully in response, scrubbing a hand through his hair as he thought about it. "It's all a bit of a blur anymore, honestly. It was an ordinary enough patrol to start out with – well I guess not that ordinary since we were so short handed that I had to go out with them. But it was fine, everything was quiet, and then all hell broke loose. We were ambushed, no idea they were coming, and then all of a sudden there were bullets flying everywhere and men dropping like flies. We got pinned behind a wall, but one of my mates was left out in the open so I went out to get him." Martin stared, mouth hanging open, and John shrugged again as he took a sip of his beer. "It's what you do. Anyone else would have, really. One of your mates goes down, you go to get him. You have to watch each other's backs out there, because there's no one else. Anyway, I was pulling him into cover when –"

He trailed off for a moment, staring off into the distance. "It's hard to describe what it's like, being shot. Things get hazy, I guess because your mind tries to block it out. But I remember feeling like I was being ripped in half, like someone had just tried to punch right through me. I looked down, and there was blood everywhere and even though Willis was bleeding too I knew that it was _my_ blood this time. But I couldn't stop, not then, so I kept pulling and got Willis and myself behind the wall, and managed to patch us both up a bit before help arrived and pulled us out."

"What happened then?" Martin asked, not sure he wanted to know the answer.

"Oh, then I passed out and didn't wake up for two days." John grinned crookedly. "Amazing how getting a bullet in you and losing most of your blood will do that to you. The damage was pretty bad, but even when I started healing I just couldn't get better. First my shoulder got infected, and then my leg started acting up, and finally they just decided to send me home. It was pretty clear that I wasn't going to be of use to anyone the way I was. You know, it's funny. I went over there looking to make a difference, to do something _good_ and important and worthwhile. And I came out of it useless and broken." His smile had changed now, the bitterness in it sending a shiver down Martin's spine. "What a funny old world."

"You, useless? How could _you_ ever be useless?" Martin asked incredulously, unable to believe what he was hearing.

"You didn't see me then, Martin. No one did, really. I kept to myself, I kept away from everyone because I couldn't bear to be a part of the world anymore when I was like that. It was like the world was just spinning past me while I was standing still, stuck limping with that stupid cane because my brain had convinced me that I couldn't walk anymore. I wasn't enough for the army, I wasn't enough for anyone. It was – it was something I don't like to think about now. It was a dark time."

The idea of John, the strong and capable and outgoing John, ever experiencing the darkness that Martin knew all too well seemed impossible, but Martin could see from the shadowed expression on his face that it was true. It was a look that Martin recognized, one that he had worn far more often than he ever cared to admit to himself, and it shook him deeply to see it on John now. "But you're, well, you're fine now. Aren't you? You seem fine."

"Well, I suppose I…I got better." The confused expression that surely was written all over Martin in response to this statement startled a chuckle out of John. "I know, it's not much of an explanation is it? But it's really what happened, as ridiculous as it seems. One day I was just a limping, lonely old soldier who didn't know what to do with his life, and the next I was running about like an idiot chasing after my stupid new flatmate and putting my life in danger again."

A chill ran through Martin now at the mention of the mysterious Sherlock Holmes and he struggled to keep his voice even as he asked as casually as he could manage, "Your flatmate – that's Sherlock Holmes, isn't it?"

"How did you – oh right. Sarah. Christ, I can only imagine the things she was telling you, and I bet none of them were good. Yeah, Sherlock is my flatmate. He's…well he's a bit mad really. Totally bonkers most of the time, and brilliant, and an absolute ass, and…" he trailed off slightly, a private smile quirking over his face along with a tiny huff of laughter. "I guess you could say that he saved me a bit. I'd never tell him that, of course, since the wanker would never let me forget it, but I think he did. Being able to help him out with crimes and cases, it gave me the push I needed to stop feeling sorry for myself and get better. It gave me something to do, something useful, and of course now taking care of him and making sure the idiot doesn't get himself killed is practically a full time job. I'm definitely never bored for long."

Martin sat back in his chair, staring down at the table in silence. The feelings tumbling through him were so conflicted that he barely sort them out within himself, sadness and regret warring with relief and happiness that he had not expected to find here. He was glad for John, certainly. No matter what had happened between the two of them, he still cared for John and wished him well, and to know that despite what he had suffered in Afghanistan John had found something to bring him joy made Martin happy for him. But standing side by side with that happiness was bitter regret and the pang of loss to know that John had slipped away from him to start a new life in which Martin was simply a side note to the main story. John had Sherlock now.

_But John needs Sherlock_, Martin thought to himself. _You know what that's like, to need someone. I needed him, once, and he helped me through it so that I could become the person I am now. And now it's John's turn to need someone._

It had never occurred to Martin that John would need help in the same way that he once had required all those years ago. But it was clear now, so clear that Sherlock was giving John the same support and purpose that Martin had once needed so desperately. John was hurting, and damaged, and just the tiniest bit broken. And Sherlock helped. There was no way Martin could grudge John that help, not after it had been so selflessly given to him.

"John, I," he paused, searching for the right words to express the feelings he could hardly define, "I'm glad that you found something that makes you happy. And I'm glad that you're happy with Sherlock too, whatever it is you're doing. It sounds, well it sounds dangerous and crazy but I know what it's like to need something to strive for and accomplish. And I know what it's like to need someone to help you out." He met John's eyes now, holding his gaze steadily. "I'm glad that you're ok, and that you're happy. And for whatever happened between us I – I think that well, we can move past it."

John smiled, honest and grateful. "Thank you, Martin. Really, thank you. For being so understanding, for forgiving me. I certainly don't deserve it after the way I treated you." Martin opened his mouth to contradict him, but John held up his hand to silence him. "No, I don't. You're too kind to ever say otherwise, but I was awful in the way I treated you and I don't deserve your forgiveness. All I can do now is swear that I will _never_ abandon you like that again, no matter what happens. That is, if you still want to be friends with me?" he asked, voice suddenly hesitant and uncertain.

Martin did not even need to consider the answer. "Of course I do, John."

"Brilliant," he said happily, and Martin nearly laughed aloud at John's unconscious echo of a man he did not even know. The tension and discomfort fled their table in an instant, leaving two men who were free to rediscover their friendship with tentative conversation without the weight of bitterness and loss. "Alright, I've certainly done enough talking for the next several days, so it's your turn now. I need to know _all _about this MJN Air you work for now, and what a wonderfully successful Captain you are. We have a lot of ground to cover."

"Well there's definitely a lot to tell, but I don't think it's quite what you're imagining to be perfectly honest. But it's…interesting to say the least."

John laughed, the sound free and unburdened and calling back to a time before sorrow and regret had come between them. "Oh, excellent. I love interesting. Well if there's really as much to talk about as you say there is, I think I'm going to need another pint to keep me going. Back in a tick."

He moved to stand up from the table, and in a moment of impulsive decision making Martin called out over the noise of the pub, "Wait, John. I think, well I think I'm ready for that pint now if – if you're still offering that is."

An enormous smile answered his hesitant words. "Of course. First round's on me."

As Martin watched John unceremoniously shoulder his way over to the bar with the authority of a man who knows exactly what he wants and how to get it, he smiled to himself and felt the tiniest bloom of hope spring to life inside of him. Things were not all better, not by a long shot yet, but they were on their way. And for the first time in a long time, Martin considered the possibility that they might just get there.


	11. Chapter 11

The next morning dawned over the city of London bright and harsh, and far hotter than it had any right to be before noon. It was clear from the crystal blue sky and the sun that was already blazing down at nine in the morning that this day was going to be just as painfully hot as the one before, if not possibly more so, and so in these early hours before the temperature skyrocketed the city as one took in a deep breath to prepare for the oppressive heat that was to come. For life in a city like London must inexorably go on even when its people wish for nothing more than to sleep the day away to escape the boiling sun, and so throughout the city people braced themselves for yet another day of overheated misery. Just one more day, surely, just one more day of air too thick to breathe, frazzled nerves stretched to the breaking point, and endless hours spent waiting for nightfall for even the slightest reprieve from the sun. _Just one more day,_ the city whispered in communal, desperate prayer, _please only one more day of this_.

But even amidst the collective misery of millions of souls crowded together in a space not meant for such soaring temperatures, there were a few bright spots of happiness to be found. A picnic in the park shared by a young couple before the true heat of the day set in, complete with chilled fruit and carefree laughter in the cool shade of a friendly tree. A small boy, gifted with the rare treat of an ice cream cone to soothe the heat of the day, delighting in every messy bite. And a man, sitting in a small corner café across the street from a hotel that was far nicer than he ever dared to dream of, drinking a cup of coffee that did not scald his mouth and reflecting quietly the monumental upheavals that had come into his life suddenly and with no warning whatsoever. It was not much – a simple cup of coffee, a sunny morning, a breath of quiet in a bustling city – but it was enough.

This moment of peace and solitude before the trek out to the airport for a day of sitting on standby was a blessing that Martin planned on savoring every second of. Just being able to sit alone and enjoy a cup of coffee in silence was a rare treat, not to mention coffee that was neither burned nor watery nor so bitter that it made him gag slightly. Oh, he did not _mind_ Arthur and his friendly chatter most days, in fact far from it as it was nice to know that at least one person genuinely enjoyed speaking to him, but there were times when even Martin desired solitude that was free of the incessant babble that Arthur so loved. On days like today, in the morning light that was a brief respite before the heat of the afternoon set in, it was a blessing to simply sit and sip at a cup of coffee while reflecting on the unexpected madness that had befallen him not twenty four hours earlier.

Of all the outcomes for this extended series of flights that Martin had expected before leaving Fitton earlier this week, reuniting with his believed-to-be-lost friend John Watson as a result of nearly fainting from heat stroke in his own flight deck was quite possibly the last. It had certainly not crossed his mind that they would get stuck in London for any period of time, and never in his wildest dreams had he dared hope that he would not only meet with John once more but rekindle the friendship that Martin had long given up for over. It was, quite frankly, a miracle, and Martin had learned long ago not to look for miracles in a life that seemed to be one set back after another. Even now, after a reunion that ended with tentative forgiveness and happiness, Martin found himself off-handedly wondering where it would all go so very wrong like every good turn in his life managed no matter the circumstance.

But, for now, things were _good_. He and John had talked, had cleared the air, had possibly even moved past the issues and the hurt and the betrayal that Martin had not even known were still a burden on his life. The great unresolved question of what had happened to John and why their friendship had seemingly dissolved into silence had been a dark presence lurking in the back of his mind, coming out to surprise him at the worst of times and bring unhappy memories roaring back to the surface. But that question was unresolved no longer. Martin no longer needed to wonder what he had done to drive John away from him, no longer needed to question whether or not John had purposefully left him behind, no longer would be kept up at night by the persistent worry that John had been killed in action half a world away. Their friendship would need some serious work to repair itself and recover from years of separation and hurt feelings, but it was work that they were both willing to put in. Even before they had left the pub last night, John had insisted that they make plans to meet up again after work and standby had been finished to continue with their catching up. Martin smiled into his coffee, warm happiness and gentle content spreading through him.

But the moment could not last forever, of course. There was apparently only so much quiet time that Martin could claim for himself before the universe decided to right itself once more, and not long into his peaceful contemplation of the curls of steam rising from his coffee Martin was shaken back into reality. The sound of the door of the café opening stirred him out of his reverie, and the sound of approaching footsteps and a familiar voice caused him to look up, startled.

"Well, well, if it isn't our mysterious vanishing captain, safe and sound. We'd just about given you up for dead before you showed up at the hotel last night, Martin." Douglas sat down heavily in the chair across the small table from Martin, wiping at his brow and unbuttoning his jacket with a grateful sigh. "Bloody hell it's hot out there already. Do you think Carolyn is going to force us to sit in an actual oven today, or will GERTI do the trick again?"

"Good morning, Douglas," Martin sighed, not sure whether or not to be annoyed that Douglas had interrupted his quiet morning or relieved that he was still speaking to him. If Martin had learned anything about Douglas Richardson in the two years they had worked together it was the man did not forgive slights easily, and the way that Martin had spoken to, no, _snapped_ at him yesterday was certainly grounds for anger. But Douglas did not appear to be angry, or annoyed, or even plotting any form of subtle and incredibly irritating revenge, and so Martin decided to press on with the conversation and hope for the best.

"Did everything go alright with Carolyn and Mr. Fredrickson yesterday? Has she murdered him yet, or are we waiting for the check to clear first?"

Douglas snorted slightly, rolling his eyes. "You know Carolyn – if there's even a whiff of money in the air she'll track it down through hell itself to find where it's coming from. As far as we're concerned for now, the fantastic Mr. Fredrickson can do no wrong just as long as he keeps paying us to be here." His eyes narrowed suddenly, and he looked across the table at Martin with a look all too questioning for comfort. "Of course, you _would_ know that if you had bothered to come back at a decent hour yesterday instead of vanishing off into the blue. What _did_ happen to you yesterday?"

Blood rushed to Martin's cheeks, and he looked down into his coffee and hoped against hope that Douglas would not notice his attempt to brush by the subject as he mumbled, "Right, sorry about um, disappearing like that yesterday. It took me longer than I thought to get to the clinic and well, I suppose I got a bit caught up in something once I got there."

"Of course, I assumed as much. Well, I also assumed that you had possibly wandered off of the sidewalk in a daze and met a violent and sticky end." He paused, looking off into the distance with a slight frown on his face. "Shame that Arthur believed me when I mentioned it."

Brought out of his embarrassment Martin snorted, all too familiar with Arthur's trusting nature. "You really must learn not to muse aloud in front of Arthur when you don't mean it, Douglas. It never goes well for anyone, especially when Carolyn finds out."

"Of course, of course. How absurdly silly of me to forget that we work with a grown man who takes whatever he hears as gospel, I shall do my best to remedy that."

Astonishingly, it really did seem as though Douglas did not bear him any ill will after what had happened yesterday. Martin was not quite sure how that was possible after the way he had acted, but he was grateful beyond measure that Douglas had not decided to not bring up his performance in the flight deck as a subject for needling or teasing. But even still, even though he had apparently earned himself a pass by some grace he did not quite understand, Martin could not bring himself to let the incident go unmentioned. Shame for his actions and guilt for not yet apologizing were both nagging away at his brain and setting him ever so slightly on edge, and he knew that the longer this went unaddressed the worse they would become. Better to end it now, even if he would not enjoy it one bit.

Collecting himself with a deep breath, he began reluctantly, "Listen, Douglas. I – I just wanted to say that, well, I'm sorry. For yesterday, for the way I snapped at you on the plane. I know you were just trying to help, but it was rather a personal thing and, while that doesn't excuse the way I acted, it meant that I got a bit…defensive." Douglas was staring at him impassively, and Martin could feel the blush returning to his face as the silence continued. Hurriedly, he continued on, "Anyway, I just wanted to say that you won't have to, to worry about me or anything like that. I'm fine, and I'm fit to fly, so you don't have to –"

Douglas interrupted him, asking quietly, "Martin, did I ever tell you how I got fired from Air England?"

Martin blinked in surprise. Of all of the possible things for Douglas to have asked him, that was very nearly the last of them all and it seemed to have nothing to do with the conversation he had thought they were having. Frowning slightly, he thought back on the nearly two years he had known Douglas and the hours of conversation that they had shared on endless flights together.

"Not…not as such, I don't think so. I mean, I know that it was because of the, er, smuggling, right?"

A small smile that contained multitudes crossed Douglas's face. "Yes, in a fashion. That was the ultimate cause, the final straw so to speak, that allowed them to drop the axe and let me go after nearly twenty years of working there. One time, being caught just once with some damned silk kimonos, and I was out without so much as a goodbye or a thank you. Just goes to show, doesn't it?"

Silence descended, leaving Martin struggling to fill it with anything at all. What did one say when their coworker suddenly started divulging painful details for apparently no reason? Did Douglas expect some sort of comfort from Martin? No, surely not. Hesitating slightly and hoping that he wasn't making the wrong choice, Martin asked uncertainly, "Why did you do it, Douglas? The smuggling, I mean? It's not like you needed the money, not with the Captain's salaries there. So why?"

"Difficult to say, really. The thrill of it all, I suppose, that was a big part of it, the thrill of being able to successfully pull one over on everyone." Douglas paused, his eyes going off into the distance as his voice went quiet and thoughtful. "It's hard to describe the feeling you get when you know that you've fooled them: your coworkers, your bosses, even the national authorities of whatever country you're flying into and out of. It's the headiest feeling in the world – well, almost the headiest. And the fact that they _knew_, that they knew all along what I was doing and couldn't do a damn thing to prove it, oh that made it even sweeter."

Martin looked at Douglas though the steam rising from his mug of coffee, dumbstruck. He had never heard his coworker speak so openly and frankly before, not even when they had been sitting alone in a darkened flight deck musing on the perfidy of whoever had been selfish enough to invent Tai Chi.

But suddenly Douglas snapped back to the present, eyes focusing once more as he shook his head with another small, bitter smile. "But, if I am to be perfectly honest with you even if I don't know why I am, it wasn't even that. The rush was nice, the rush was lovely, but the rush was just…filling in for something else I suppose. Something I'd given up three years before, and something I'd been missing that entire time. I'd been sober for three years, three bloody long years at that point, but the wanting never _really_ goes away no matter how long it's been. Even now, I still miss it. Every time I have a long day, or I see one of you knocking back a pint or a glass of wine to celebrate a job not so very well done, I want to drink."

_Oh._ It had never really occurred to Martin that Douglas still struggled with his drinking, not after so many years of being sober. Of course, it was a topic that never really came up between the two of them, not outside of sly remarks and sideways quips that were somehow involved in getting them out of some new disaster. Neither Martin nor Douglas were the most expansive of people when it came to discussing their emotions, figuring in true stoic British fashion that it was best to let sleeping dogs lie and leave well enough alone. But for whatever reason Douglas appeared to be in an unusually chatty mood this morning, and Martin was not about to stop him once he had started.

Taking a deep , steadying breath Douglas continued speaking, still not looking Martin in the face as he did so. "But anyway, that's not the point. The _point_ was that I was telling you how I got fired. I'd been getting away with the smuggling for so long, right under the nose of Air England and God himself without a care in the world. Everyone knew I was doing it, and nobody could prove a damn thing. And so every time, on every trip, I had to go even bigger just to prove that I could. What started out as some food that you couldn't get through customs eventually turned into hundreds of pounds worth of goods, just for the thrill of being able to do something that I shouldn't. It was those damn kimonos that did me in. I should never have taken them, but how could I possibly resist? Fifteen pure silk kimonos, each worth at least five hundred pounds or more to the right buyer – I would have made a fortune. Well, needless to say I was caught, red bloody handed, and I was out without so much as a thank you or a goodbye. Just my things in a box, then so long and thanks for all the work."

"It didn't feel real, any of it. I'd been going so long thinking that I'd never be caught, and then one afternoon it all goes up in smoke and there I am without a job. I dreaded going home to tell Elizabeth – that's the second wife, by the way, and the mother of my daughter – she'd been on me for ages to give up the smuggling, just like she'd helped me give up the drinking, and the thought of telling her that it was all over was unbearable. But still, I thought that she would understand at least a little. That I'd get even just a touch of sympathy and understanding from my wife, the one who promised to stand by me in good times and bad." He laughed shortly, the sound as bitter as anything Martin had ever heard. "Just goes to show what I knew."

"She left. That night, once I told her, she grabbed Sophie and she left. She'd had enough, she said, enough of me and enough of my stupidity. I couldn't even get a word in to ask her to stay, there was no reasoning with her at that point. Just yelling, and slamming doors, and she was gone, leaving me alone in the house we'd shared for so many years. There was nothing I could do to stop it, just like before, but this time it wasn't just my job that I was losing. It was everything."

Martin hardly dared to breathe lest he shatter the moment forever. Douglas wasn't looking him in the face, instead staring down at the tabletop with an expression so solemn that he hardly even looked like himself anymore. It was as though he were an entirely different person from the carefree, garrulous man that Martin knew so well, the man who always had a ready quip and snide remark ready to save the day or lighten the mood. When he finally spoke again, his voice was barely audible amidst the chatter of the bustling café, and Martin had to lean in to catch his murmured words.

"It'd been three years since I touched a drop of liquor, but that didn't mean there wasn't any in the house. Elizabeth hadn't a clue, of course, I'd hidden it too well for her to ever find it. I never intended to drink it, but it was a comfort to know that it was there. To know that I had the _option_. So I grabbed that bottle of cheap whiskey, poured myself a glass, and stayed up the whole night staring at it. To this day I don't even know why I did it – I don't know why I tormented myself like that after being sober for so long. It was almost as though if I drank it, I would prove her right and prove that all of this had happened for a reason, because I was a failure after all. I wanted it _so_ badly, I wanted nothing more than to grab it and drink it, and to keep drinking until I blacked out and forgot all about my miserable stupid life. And I very nearly did, several times. But I sat and I stared at that damn glass until the sun rose, and then when it did I poured it all down the drain and got on with my life. Well, as best I could, of course. There are some things you just can't fix."

He fell silent, and for the briefest of moments it felt as though the world had disappeared around them to leave only a small table with two men who suddenly no longer knew how to speak to one another. Martin felt as though everything he had known about Douglas before this morning had been a lie, a clever sham built on bluff and ready quips that had taken in everyone around them. And yet, it made perfect sense. The brief glimpses of Douglas's life that Martin had been granted before, the honest ones that had been gleaned so carefully from amidst the tall tales and gleeful bragging, they all seemed to fall perfectly into place now that the truth had been laid bare before him. Oh, it was true that Douglas was enormously confident and suave and all of the other things that he so openly showed to the world at large. But a perfect, unflappable sky god he was not. But there was one question that still remained, one question that Martin kept circling back to as he tried to reconcile the startling new facts that he had learned.

"Why are you telling me this?"

Douglas looked Martin in the eye for the first time since he had begun his story, face devoid of any irony or humor, voice low with honest sincerity. "So that you know, Martin, that you are not the only one with demons in his head."

Silence fell in the tiny café, all sounds of both customers and the outside world slipping away. Martin stared at Douglas, utterly at a loss for words, completely taken aback by the unbelievable revelation he had just heard. In all of their time together, all of the hours of conversation they had shared, Martin had never dreamed that Douglas would ever share something so deeply personal with him. That was simply not the way that their relationship functioned, an yet here they were, not even trapped in the confines of a tiny flight deck and without any form of prompting or goading whatsoever, and Douglas had just shared what was very likely one of the most painful parts of his past with him. It was perhaps one of the most surprising things that Martin had ever experienced, something that he never would have guessed would come out of this morning.

_Why the hell did he just tell me that? _But even as Martin's mind spun in place trying to pick apart the motivation for the story he had just heard, a tiny part of him knew the answer already. Douglas had seen the scar on Martin's wrist, had understood what it meant, and he was trying to tell Martin that it was…fine. That whatever Martin had endured years ago, that whatever demons plagued him still, Douglas did not care. Because Douglas, calm, cool, collected Douglas, had his own demons to fight. He understood, and his story had been his way of saying without speaking it aloud that if Martin ever felt the need to share his story in return, he could.

_You are not the only one with demons in your head. You are not alone_.

A weight seemed to lift itself from Martin's shoulders. He looked up at Douglas in wonder, meeting the older man's friendly smile with one of his own. Never before had he considered that he might be able to share his past with anyone at all, much less with Douglas, the man who seemed to have such perfect control and calm composure in every aspect of his life. But Douglas had suffered too, had endured pain and loss and heartbreak like Martin had never imagined a man as seemingly happy and carefree as Douglas could live through. Martin could feel his whole world shake, set on edge as long-held assumptions crumbled into dust. And in a split second that he prayed that he would not regret, he made a decision that he knew would change everything.

"I think we'd better be getting to the airfield soon. Wouldn't want Carolyn yelling at us for being late as well as lazy and whatever else she's decided we've done wrong today." Martin stood, reaching for the hat that was resting on the table and tucking it under his arm. "It's going to be a long day, but I think I have a story that might pass the time."

The smile that Douglas sent him was the most genuine that Martin had ever seen.


	12. Chapter 12

The hush of a lazy summer afternoon lay peacefully over Baker Street. At long last, after a week that had felt like an eternity, the miserable heat wave had broken and the city breathed a collective sigh of relief. It was by no means cold just yet, but for the first time in nearly a week people had been able to sleep through a night in peace, had not woken covered in a sheen of sweat, hand not felt their nerves stretched to the breaking point by heat so crushing that even drawing breath was a monumental task. The city was at peace.

The afternoon sun shone down on a lone figure making his way briskly down the sidewalk with determined steps. While it was true that John Watson did not usually walk at a pace that could be called sedate, today he was practically jogging home, a spring in his step and an absentminded smile playing over his face as he drew ever closer to the flat. He had not felt this happy or carefree in months, and his joy was clearly visible in every step he took and the way his smile grew even wider as he approached the front door of the flat. He was even humming tunelessly as he rummaged through his pockets to find his keys, and he sprang up the steps to the sitting room two at a time as though he simply could not wait to greet the tranquil sitting room and the man he hoped to find there.

"Sherlock! Are you in?" he called cheerfully, scanning the flat quickly for signs of what his flatmate had gotten up to during the day while he had been gone. It was an automatic check that had been ingrained into him as habit by now, and his speedy look round the room showed him that the walls were still mostly bullet-free and that the furniture was still whole and in good condition. In fact, everything was…normal. Surprisingly so, even before the scale of normality had been adjusted for the two of them and the fact that Sherlock should have by rights been crawling up the walls from boredom at this very moment. It seemed that the criminal classes of London had been just as affected by the soaring temperatures as everyone else and had chosen to take the week off, saving crime for when the city had returned to a more bearable temperature. But even though Sherlock was not suited for warm weather even on his best days, he was not even sulking on one of the sofas and bemoaning the dullness of the world but instead fully dressed and alert at the kitchen table with his eyes glued to his favorite microscope.

John smiled once again to see that Sherlock was not suffering unduly from excruciating boredom, and that he had not turned his energy towards the destructive ends that he tended to favor. With a happy sigh he flopped down into his armchair to toe off his shoes, enjoying immensely the feeling of carefree happiness that had unexpectedly returned to his life in the last two days just when he was afraid that things had been well and truly bollocksed up beyond repair. Two days ago, when he first had the shock of a lifetime to see his old friend Martin standing in front of him in his London clinic of all the places in the world, John had been so startled that he honestly could not begin to say what he was feeling. Was it joy to see an old friend again after so many years? Was it surprised disorientation to have old life and new jammed together in the most unexpected way? Could it possibly even be fear of how Martin would respond to him? In truth it had probably been all three at once, shooting through him like a lightning bolt the moment his sluggish brain caught up to recognize the man who looked so very like and yet nothing at all like the man he had known so well all those years ago.

Martin had changed, perhaps not in ways that were immediately apparent to the casual observer, but in ways that shook John to his core and caused the slightest moment of confusion when he had turned to greet him. The uniform was certainly a surprise, for one thing – John was sure that he had never seen Martin looking so official as he did standing there bedecked in gold braid and pins, not to mention holding a hat bordering on garish tucked snugly under his arm. But it was more than just the surprising clothing that had changed Martin from the man that John once knew. He almost seemed, impossible as it was, to be somehow taller, more present, more _alive_ than he had been all those years ago when he shrunk from the world and everything in it. He no longer tried to fade into the background or shrink from view as though he would be derided for simply existing, instead radiating a confidence that John could have hardly dared dream of five years ago. Martin looked, well, capable. John had never been so happy to nearly not recognize someone.

But of course the reunion had not been as happy as John hoped. Martin had drawn back from him, had maintained the distance that had separated them for so many years, and at the barest hint of reconnecting he had turned and fled. John did not know what to make of it – Martin had been the one to seek him out and seemed as though he had wanted to tell John something, but when John had extended the hand of friendship that had once been so familiar to them both he had retreated with a look of hurt and betrayal so obvious that it tore at John to see it. The next few hours at work were spent in an agony of confusion and self-doubt, until finally John could bear it no longer. Doing what was probably very much against some rule he didn't want to think about, he had gone through the patient intake papers until at last he found what he was looking for: Martin's phone number. Several strained and nerve-wracking text messages later, John found himself hastily on his way to a pub, heart in his throat and hoping that this attempt would go even a tiny bit better than the last.

It had – eventually. There had of course been the exceedingly painful bit in the middle when John had been made to realize just what a _colossal_ arse he had been in losing touch with a friend he had valued so highly, a realization that hurt almost as much as the bullet that had been its cause. To know that he had betrayed Martin's trust in that way, that he had let all of that hard work and hard-won success slip away, was something that John could already tell was going to be one of the biggest regrets of his entire life. But even though Martin would have been fully justified in not forgiving John and declaring their friendship well and truly over, to his immense surprise Martin had done no such thing. After several explanations and a heart-felt apology that was long overdue, they had been able to move past it and begin the work of rebuilding a friendship that had fallen by the wayside. And the last two days had only gone up from there, meeting once more after work yesterday and again briefly for coffee today. Things were beginning to fall back into place, conversation and laughter flowing easily between the two of them just as easily as it had before. More so, actually, as Martin's new-found confidence meant that he was free of much of the crippling insecurity and fear that had plagued him earlier. It was better than John could have ever hoped, a thought that sent a glow of happiness through him and a distant smile playing across his face.

"So it went well, I presume?"

Sherlock's sudden question startled John out of his contemplation of the empty chair across from him, jolting him back into the present moment and the flat around him and the friend who was still staring into his microscope and yet in his very distinctive way dividing his attention as only a genius could.

"Hmm? Oh yes, it did – wait. What are you talking about?" John caught himself halfway through his distracted answer as he frequently did, realizing that it was quite possible that he and Sherlock were having two different conversations.

"The date. Or possibly catching up with a friend, since there's not quite enough evidence to point one way or the other yet – knowing your romantic proclivities I would tend to favor the date option and yet the data available favors the latter." Sherlock finally pulled his eyes away from whatever experiment he was working on this time, jotting down a quick note before looking over at where John was sitting with raised eyebrows and a bemused expression in his armchair. "Oh, really John? Must I?" he asked, the tired exasperation in his voice belied by the twinkle of amusement in his eye.

Knowing full well that Sherlock wanted nothing more than to detail his deduction process step by step, John shrugged and said amiably, "Alright, let's have it then."

Sherlock rolled his eyes in the special way he reserved only for John that managed to be at once both an expression of endearment and yet ever so slightly insulting. "Evidently I must. Your mood had been increasingly tired and frustrated during the last week thanks to the heat wave increasing your workload at the clinic, culminating in you having a spectacular tiff with your alarm clock two mornings ago when it refused to shut off. You left for work in a mood that was not likely to dissipate any time soon when you had a full workday ahead of you, and yet when you returned that evening you were in a better mood than you have been in over a week. You stayed late after work even though you had no previous plans and Mike Stamford is on vacation, meaning that you were without your usual last-minute pub partner and yet somehow came home smelling of the pub near your work. There are no new staff members at the clinic you would be interested in taking out for a drink, and you do not make a habit of dating patients, so probability says that you were reunited with someone that you already knew but have not seen recently. Considering the amount of time you have spent together – three dates in as many days John, really? – you are quite eager to reconnect with whomever she is, and even you would be able to tell by your happy grin when you came in that they have been going well. Easy."

John blinked with a mouth hanging open in silence for a moment before his face creased into an enormous grin and an even bigger laugh. He shook his head with another chuckle before sitting back into his chair with a contented sigh. "You know, I don't know why I still ask after all this time – maybe I just like indulging you." Sherlock sniffed, obviously put out at the idea of John not regarding his methods with the solemnity that they so clearly deserved. John was enjoying himself immensely however, and he continued teasingly, "Not bad though, considering the evidence you had to work with. Although I think Martin might be a _touch_ put out that you so quickly put him in the "date" category."

An irritated frown flashed over Sherlock's face and John had to repress a grin at how amazingly predictable his friend could be sometimes. Trust Sherlock to focus in on the fact that he had guessed the wrong gender of John's friend and ignore any of the other facts he could learn about the story. From the sullen slump of his shoulders, it was clear that Sherlock was heading straight for a sulk of rather epic proportions assisted by the boredom he had been trying so hard to stave off, and John realized he would have to step in quickly to keep things along their current peaceful track.

"You were right about everything else though, of course. The bit with me smelling like the pub was impressive."

Sherlock sniffed derisively, but the angry tension of his shoulders loosened a bit despite the disdain on his face. "Hardly. I could practically smell you two blocks away you reeked so badly of beer and sweat. I don't know how you stand those places."

"You're such a baby, I swear" John teased gently. "Dead and decomposing bodies you can handle no problem, but you turn your nose up at some beer and a crowded room?"

"Dead bodies are _interesting_ – pubs are nothing but crowded masses of uneducated humanity swilling down alcohol to forget the meaninglessness of their pathetic lives. I can't bear them."

"Like I said – baby." Sherlock sniffed again and turned back to his microscope, and John was gratified to see that the sulk had been well and truly averted for now. But if he had learned anything living with Sherlock it was not to become complacent when bad moods were looming like storm clouds on the horizon, and so leaning back into the familiar comfort of his armchair he looked up at the ceiling with a smile and began to speak quietly, half to himself and half to the man he knew was listening despite his feigned disinterest.

"Whatever you think of pubs, Martin and I had a nice time there, both times we went actually. It was the right kind of place for us to meet up again after so long: nice and public and not too hemmed in, and plenty of beer to help if awkwardness came up. God, it's ridiculous that we'd have to worry about that, all things considered, but I guess that's what happens after so many years. Just goes to show what an idiot I am sometimes."

A snort came from the kitchen right on cue, sending a fleeting grin over John's face as he contemplated the cracks in the ceiling plaster. "Yeah, I know it's not a surprise to you, no need to rub it in thanks. It's just…well it's rather uncharted territory for me, you know? Meeting up with an old friend that I had right before I left for Afghanistan totally out of nowhere, it's strange to start over again after losing contact in the war. Especially when…"

John trailed off, but in typical fashion the silence was not left unfilled for long. "He was a patient of yours?" Sherlock asked, curiosity overcoming his natural disdain for anything resembling personal, unscientific anecdotes.

"How did – never mind. I don't want to know." John felt on some level that he should be annoyed that Sherlock was able to read him so well even in personal matters like these that involved another person, but to tell the truth after this long together all of the strangeness of the situation had pretty much vanished. Still, there were _some _privacy considerations to think about. "Yes, Martin was my patient years ago when I was still working as an A&E doctor. He…he was a special case. And we did become friends, good friends for several years before I left for the army."

"Hmm." A non-committal hum came from Sherlock's direction, and John paused in his examination of the dancing shadows from the tree outside to glace over towards the kitchen. Sherlock was looking at him closely, and it was all John could do not to curse aloud at the sight of the deduction face he knew so well. It was only a matter of time before Sherlock put at least some of the pieces together, if he hadn't already, and of all the people in the world to know the details of a sensitive, private matter like this one Sherlock was quite possibly the worst.

Leaning forward in his chair, John looked at Sherlock earnestly, praying that what he was about to ask would actually penetrate that maze of a brain and make an impact for once instead of going the way of countless other questions that he had asked during their time as friends. It was a long shot, but it was all he had. "Listen, Sherlock, Martin's my friend but he was also my patient, and doctor patient confidentiality is still a real concern. Whatever you think, whatever you think you figure out just – just _leave it_, please. I'm asking you as a friend. Please."

Defying all precedent and expectation, the snort of derision or eye roll of distilled sarcasm did not come. In fact, Sherlock did not even frown in the way he did when he felt that John was being especially dramatic or sentimental. Instead, he simply stared long and hard at John for several minutes of silence so heavy it seemed to fill the entire flat with its presence and physicality before nodding nearly imperceptibly and turning back to his microscope.

"Sherlock?" John asked, unsure of what had just happened and feeling rather as though the rug had been pulled out from under him.

Sherlock looked up one more time, meeting John's eyes with unaccustomed solemnity. "I understand, John. I don't think that I'm _quite_ as insensitive as you believe me to be at times."

If the rug had been pulled out from under him before, as John sat back in his chair now he was fairly certain that the floor had gone and disappeared right along with it. Sherlock, understanding? Sherlock, taking the time to consider someone else's feelings besides his own and make a decision based on those considerations? It seemed impossible – but as he considered the exchange further John realized that he was not exactly being fair in his surprise towards his friend. True, Sherlock did not exactly conform to the standards of compassion and empathy set by most people, but that did not mean the man was as entirely heartless as he sometimes liked to claim. Memories of small kindnesses came forward in a trickle that turned to a flood: an elaborate scheme to get rid of an unnecessary cane, beers purchased without asking, landladies loved like mothers, a thousand and one unspoken gestures and wordless thoughtful actions that hid beneath a shell of cold-hearted indifference. And truthfully, John did not know all that much about Sherlock and the life he had lived before their time together at Baker Street. Who was he to judge what Sherlock would or would not understand?

A small smile quirked up the corner of John's mouth once more as he watched Sherlock diligently adjusting his microscope and scribbling down notes with eyes narrowed in renewed concentration. A seed of an idea that had been sitting in the back of his mind for the last two days had suddenly taken root, encouraged by Sherlock's understanding and the remarkable progress that Martin had made during their years apart. Because despite that progress, despite the miles of difference between the terrified young man that John had once known and the capable pilot that he was beginning to know now, John could tell that all was not exactly right in Martin's life still. He was better, and it made John's heart sing to see it, but he was not happy. Not entirely, not as he should be. Not as he deserved to be.

_Oh yes, yes this might just work. And if it doesn't, what's the harm?_

"Sherlock?" John asked one more time, catching the tiny sigh of frustration that came with Sherlock's attention being stolen away from his work again. Well, that was just tough. If Sherlock could drag John away from _his_ work at any and all hours of the day, not to mention dragging him away from everything else in his life, that man would simply have to deal with having losing a few minutes of his precious concentration. Smiling with no small amount of mischief, John said "I need your help with something."

"What could you possibly -" Sherlock paused midsentence, looking up at John with a disbelieving and disappointed stare. "No. Whatever you have in mind, no. I don't care to meddle, _especially_ with people I don't even know."

"Oh that's bollocks and you know it, you love nothing _more_ than to meddle. It's for a good cause anyway, and I'm pretty sure you'll even get some benefit out of it too."

"No," Sherlock said, voice flat with determination.

"I'll let you do that experiment you've been bugging me about, the one with the electrodes and the shocks." It was a dirty trick, and one that John was sure that he was going to regret _immensely_ later, but it was the only thing that would work on Sherlock now. And from the sudden gleam of scientific zeal in Sherlock's eyes that was quickly dampened behind a mask of indifference, he knew that it had been entirely successful.

"Oh, _fine_. What will I have to do for this ridiculous plan of yours, whatever it is?" he asked in resignation, and John had to fight to suppress a grin.

"Hardly anything. And trust me, this is going to be good."

* * *

><p>The next day, sitting in a corner café and fiddling nervously with a cup of decidedly subpar tea, John was not sure at all that this was going to be good in any way, shape, or form. It had seemed like such a brilliant idea yesterday afternoon, safe in the confines of his flat and scheming away with a bright view of the future and endless optimism for the success of his oh-so-brilliant plan. But now, with crucial moment drawing ever closer and only Sherlock's assurance that all of the necessary pieces would fall into place, all of John's confidence had gone the way of the heat wave that had left them behind and left only nervousness and trepidation in its place. This was a terrible idea. This would never work. Martin would hate him.<p>

_What was I thinking? This is none of my business at all, I should never have bothered to think I could do anything. God, Martin did so much better when I wasn't there, why would I think that I could make any sort of difference now? This was such a bad – _

But all future thoughts of the disastrous nature of his plan and hope for calling it all off was dashed to pieces by the sight of Martin entering the café and making his way over to John's table. To John's great surprise he was not in his pilot's uniform for the first time since they had been reunited, wearing instead a pair of faded blue jeans, a weathered grey tee shirt with the letters F.A.C. blazoned across the chest, and a dark green button-up jumper similar to many that John owned as a concession to the light breeze in the morning air. He was very nearly a different man entirely out of his uniform, years younger and infinitely more relaxed with nothing more than the removal of a stiff blue jacket and pounds of gold braid. It wasn't that the uniform made him seem nervous exactly, more that now without the weight of responsibility carried in the markers of his office John was able to see the true Martin underneath instead of the formal Captain Crieff who wore them.

Shaken out of his nervousness, John smiled warmly at Martin as he approached the table. "Morning, Martin. No uniform today?"

Martin smiled in return, much of the hesitance of the first few days of their renewed acquaintance long gone and replaced with a far easier and more comfortable grin than he had ever worn years ago when it seemed as though the weight of the world had settled on his shoulders alone. In fact, Martin looked downright gleeful this morning as he slid into the chair across from John, radiating a kind of positive energy that was both utterly strange to see from him and wonderful as well.

"Nope, no uniform today" he said. "Turns out Mr. Fredrickson's meetings, whatever the hell they're about, got extended another day out of the blue, which means we're still stuck in London for now waiting on him. We're even going to miss a flight back in Fitton that'd been scheduled for a while, and Carolyn was _furious_."

"Oh lord, that's awful I'm so sorry." But looking at Martin and the grin that was plastered all over his face, John hesitated with his sympathy. "Wait, isn't it awful? With missing a flight, and Carolyn being so angry? And don't you have a van job you need to do or something?"

"Wellll," Martin began happily, "it's not quite as bad as all that. Carolyn _was_ quite angry at first – the only reason nothing got broken was because she would have had to pay for it – but then lovely old Mr. Fredrickson felt so very bad for delaying us and causing us to miss our job that he not only let us off standby for the day, he doubled the already _ridiculous _amount of money he was paying us, which makes up for the missed job about three times over. At the moment, and possibly for the first time ever, MJN Air is loaded."

"That's fantastic!" But before he could say another word Martin jumped in again, eager enough to share whatever news he had that he was nearly bouncing in his seat in excitement.

"Oh but that's not even the best bit! No, see, after Carolyn got off the phone with Mr. Fredrickson she was so over the moon about all the money that it was like she was in her own little world of adding up figures and surpluses. I mentioned, well muttered really since I wasn't expecting anything out of it, that all the money we were getting was nice and all but I was still missing my van job that was going to pay my rent for the next month, and right there, out _nowhere_ she gives me this!"

Reaching into his pocket, Martin pulled out a slightly crumpled piece of paper that he brandished in front of him like a trophy. It was a check – a paycheck made out to Martin Crieff from Carolyn Knapp-Shappey, the CEO and owner of MJN Air.

"It's a paycheck," he said happily, eyes shining with joy and perhaps a few tears as well. "A paycheck for being a captain of a real airline. I got paid to be a professional pilot at an actual airline, and I didn't even have to ask. She just…_gave_ it to me, because we had enough money for once. I mean, it's not a whole lot, more than I would have gotten for the van job but still not all that much, but still! A paycheck!"

"I – I'm so happy for you Martin, I really am. You deserve it, more than anyone. I wish I could say that I was proud of you, but I certainly didn't have anything to do with it, you managed all on your own."

"What are you talking about John, of course you had something to do with it. I…I never would have managed to become a pilot in the first place if you hadn't helped me pass that test, if you hadn't told me that I could do it, if you hadn't been there to encourage me and keep me going. Honestly, I'm not even sure if I'd still be here if it weren't for you."

All of the air had gone out of the room. Or at least, it certainly felt that way to John who suddenly found that breathing had become nearly impossible as he looked at the happy, healthy, proud man who looked nothing like the shadow of a person he had found sitting in a hospital bed. "Martin, I –"

"No, let me finish before I lose my nerve. I never thanked you properly for everything you did, not nearly enough anyway. I tried, once, but well…I guess the world hasn't exactly made things easy for either of us, has it?"

John matched Martin's rueful smile with a gentle shake of his head, replying quietly "No, no it hasn't."

"But like you showed me, just trying isn't good enough when you have something important to do." He paused to take a deep breath, bracing for whatever he needed so badly to say and meeting John's gaze with eyes that were bright with emotion. "So, thank you John. Thank you for not giving up on me when I'd given up on myself, thank you for sticking with me, thank you for turning my life around and getting me here. Thank you for saving my life."

It took several moments of swallowing heavily around the sudden constriction of his throat before John was able to find his voice once more, eyes burning and chest tight with happiness and pride and some other emotion he could not quite name. "You are very welcome, Martin. I – all I can say is that it's a privilege to be your friend. And I am so, so proud of you and everything you've done."

Silence fell between them, no longer the tense and uncomfortable awkwardness of two people who did not know what they could possible say to the other but instead warm, amiable, and comfortable with shared history and friendship. This had certainly not been the outcome that John had been expecting of this morning's conversation, but as John had discovered years ago and was relearning now, just because things were not going along with expectations did not spell disaster. In fact, if the last few days were any indication, he should really start letting things go off track more often.

Breaking the silence with a quiet huff of laughter, John asked"So, this has been quite the morning for you so far, hasn't it?"

Martin chuckled along with John and shook his head slightly in disbelief. "God, it has. A paycheck and a day off all in one! I don't even know what to do with myself with a whole day in London that's not spent sitting in a plane. What do normal people even do for fun when they have a day off anyway?"

"Oh I'm sure we can figure something out – I have the day off as well, and I'm getting to know this city pretty well by now. If you want to spend the day together, that is?"

A nod and happy grin from Martin answered his question, but the sudden buzz of his phone against his thigh and its loud chime in the crowded café moments later nearly made John jump out of his skin in surprise. _What on – _oh. _Right._ The unexpectedly emotionally loaded conversation of the last few minutes had caused John to forget all about his plan, but as ever Sherlock was punctual down to the second and had not let down his end of the bargain. John's forgetfulness was working in his favor today, a it meant that he did not need to feign surprise at the sudden noise of his phone or the confusion he felt to have it ring on a non-work day.

"Sorry Martin, I just need to check – oh." His voice trailed off in what he hoped was a convincing manner as he looked down at his phone, reading the text message from Sherlock that they had agreed on in the flat last night before more important matters had come up.

_Your assistance is needed.  
>Come to Barts immediately.<br>SH_

"Is something the matter?" Martin asked, concern creeping into his voice at the sight of the frown that had appeared on John's face.

"No, no everything's fine, it's just…oh _damn_. I'm so sorry, but I'm afraid that something has come up with Sherlock and I think he needs my help."

As he was speaking sent a silent but fervent thanks to the gods of crime in London that the two of them had in fact stumbled into a case last night so that his part of the plan at least was not a lie. As improbable as it seemed, it appeared that the criminal classes really had been waiting for cooler weather to renew their activities, for nearly as soon as a touch of chill entered the evening air the previous night Sherlock had received a desperate call from an art museum that had been robbed in broad daylight. It was not the triple homicide that he had been hoping for, but after so long without a case John rather suspected that Sherlock would have settled for bicycle theft it promised to be intellectually stimulating in any way. A quick twenty minutes at the crime scene and a few words with the distraught curator had been all he needed to collect evidence in a flurry of limbs and coat and frantically joyful motion, and when John had awoken this morning the flat had already been empty of the other occupant who was undoubtedly ensconced in his lab. It was perfect.

The moment Sherlock's name was mentioned, Martin's face had fallen ever so slightly before he was able to hide his disappointment. He was doing his best to look cheerful now, but John knew him far better than to fall for that or the resigned brightness of his voice. "Ok, right then. I suppose you'll have to go help him of course, that's more important. Is it some big exciting case this time? A murder or a kidnapping or something like that?"

"Oh no, nothing so exciting as all that. Just some fancy painting of a waterfall or something that got stolen and left the police stumped. I don't even think Sherlock needs me for anything important, but you never know. He could very well need me to hold a pen for him, the lazy sod." He paused, then smiled brightly as though a brilliant idea had just occurred to him out of the blue. "Hey, I know! Why don't you come with me?"

"I – what – come with you? On a case?" Martin spluttered slightly, clearly taken aback that John would even consider such a thing.

"Oh no, we're not doing any actual case work or anything just yet. Sherlock's just doing some research in the lab – analyzing evidence and looking into fancy microscopes and stuff – and like I said, he probably doesn't need me for anything important that he couldn't do himself if he weren't lazy. It won't take but a few minutes, and after I'm done we can go do something fun with your day off. And you can meet Sherlock too! It'll be great!"

Martin hesitated, conflicting emotions written all over his face. The desire to spend more time with John, not wanting to waste his day off, apprehension, nervousness, and perhaps even the tiniest bit of anticipation. _Come on Martin. Come on…_

"Won't I get in the way?" he asked hesitantly.

"Oh no, not at all," John reassured. "Like I said, we're not doing any actual investigating or anything yet, just stuff in the lab. Come on, it'll be fun."

"I…I suppose. You're sure Sherlock won't mind?"

Hiding a victorious grin, John stood up from the table to grab his jacket and said happily, "Trust me Martin, he won't mind one bit."

* * *

><p>Pushing open the door of Sherlock's favorite lab at Barts, it occurred to John that he was honestly not sure whether he or Martin was more nervous about what lay beyond it. Martin's good mood and unexpected run of great luck so far this morning were both doing wonders to keep him upbeat and positive, but it was still clear to John that he was less than thrilled about the prospect of finally meeting the much-discussed Sherlock. In all honesty John couldn't really say that he blamed him, and only the promise of making Martin's already good day even better if all the pieces fell into place was keeping him from worrying too much about what would happen if they didn't.<p>

There was no way this could go _too _badly, really there wasn't. John would just have to ignore how cold that comfort was.

But there was no turning back now, not when they were already walking into the lab and taking in the sight of Sherlock hunched over one of the tables focusing on a pipette filled with a chemical that was undoubtedly both quite dangerous and stupidly expensive. He did not even register their entrance into the room, devoting all of his attention to the careful and precise placement of exactly three drops onto a slide that was swiftly transferred to a microscope for intense scrutiny and frantic note taking. This was by no means an unfamiliar sight for John, being nearly an exact duplicate of both yesterday afternoon and many other afternoons in the flat besides, but when there was a case on the line instead of experiments for the sake of scientific knowledge there was always a renewed feeling of intensity and purpose to all of Sherlock's movements. It was incredible really, the change a mystery and a challenge could work on the man, transforming him from an increasingly irritable bundle of nerves into a sleekly efficient crime solving machine. It did John's heart good to see his friend in his element, ridded of the boredom and torment that had been plaguing him and working away happily once more.

Martin of course had no idea about any of these things, and he was looking decidedly confused as to why Sherlock had not yet even looked in their direction much less acknowledged their presence as they continued to stand a few feet away from him. But John knew better than to disturb Sherlock in what could prove to be a crucial and delicate stage of his work, having learned the hard way that breaking his focus while dealing with chemicals and reactions was a sure route to disaster, and so he would wait patiently for however long was necessary until it appeared that he could safely make his presence known. Thankfully they did not have long to wait before Sherlock pulled his eyes away from the microscope, looking over at them quickly and then back down to his notebook to scribble a few more notes in the spidery scrawl that was illegible to almost anyone that was not him or the flatmate who spent more time with him than was probably healthy.

"There you are. I thought you'd died on your way over here it took you so long."

John grinned crookedly and shook his head ruefully at the oh-so-Sherlockian greeting, glad to see that he was in fine form today despite being gently bullied into helping someone he did not know. "You know, I _was_ in the middle of something when you texted, and halfway across London too. I don't just exist to run at your beck and call."

A snort indicating just what Sherlock thought of this claim was his only answer as he busily continued whatever work he was doing with the pipette. Apparently he had decided that even if he was being coerced into helping with John's plan, Sherlock was _not_ going to make this any easier than he had to while he had other matters to worry about. Well, two could play at that game.

"Sherlock, this is Martin, an old friend of mine. He's –"

"An airline captain for a small company, and an acquaintance of yours from before you left for Afghanistan, yes I know," Sherlock interrupted smoothly, not looking up from his notes.

"Actually I'm not the First Officer I'm the…oh." Martin blinked in surprise as he trailed off, taken aback by both Sherlock's abrupt manner and the fact that his automatic correction was in fact not necessary. Looking at John in no little confusion, he asked quietly, "Did you tell him about me already?"

John shook his head slightly. "No – well I mean I mentioned that I'd run into you after a long time, but I never mentioned that you were a pilot."

"Then how –"

"Oh good lord, really? It's _obvious,_" Sherlock interrupted with a roll of his eyes. "It's practically written all over you, anyone could see it."

"Sherlock, please. Don't," John cautioned, knowing full well that it would do nothing to stop him.

But Martin's eyes had a curious gleam in them, curiosity practically radiating off of him as he leaned forward slightly. "No, please. I mean, if you don't mind that is, could you tell me how you knew that? How it's…written all over me."

Sherlock flashed John a triumphant smirk before scanning Martin briefly one more time with narrowed eyes and fresh concentration. "As I told John once before, although to no one's surprise he did not listen to me, your left thumb makes it perfectly obvious that you are not only a pilot who flies professionally instead of for leisure, but also that you are the captain of your small craft. Your hands carry a significant amount of residual tension in them that you transfer into balling your hands into fists or habitually flexing your fingers, a result of what could only be from holding a steering column for hours at a time with far too much pressure, something that likely results in you overcontrolling your small aircraft frequently. In addition you are obviously right handed, and yet your left thumb shows calluses unusual in anyone who does not need to reach for switches and buttons that are on his left hand side while his stronger right hand is occupied with more important matters such as holding the steering column. This would only be possible were you the captain, as the captain is always seated on the left side of the aircraft. And finally there is the painfully obvious fact that your watch, while inexpensive, still seems to have been purposefully chosen for the fact that it can be easily set for multiple time zones, and is in fact still set for what was assuredly your last port of call in Greece. All together, you could not have more obviously been a captain if you had been wearing your undoubtedly hideous uniform when you walked in the room."

Silence reigned in the suddenly echoing laboratory. Sherlock turned back to his work, smugly satisfied with a deduction well done and an audience duly impressed, John had buried his face in his hands somewhere about halfway through his rapid-fire speech, and Martin was gaping at Sherlock so widely he rather resembled a pale and thoroughly startled fish. Even now a few seconds later John could still practically see the wheels spinning in place in Martin's brain as he tried to process what he had just heard, and for a moment John was afraid that the result of his confusion would be anger and hurt feelings at the several sideways jabs at his piloting ability. But his reaction was not the indignation that John was expecting – in fact it was so far from the usual response that Sherlock received to laying a person's life bare in a few sentences that neither of them saw it coming.

"I…wow…that was. Wow. Thank you."

Both Sherlock and John blinked in shared surprise, fairly sure that this was the first time in recorded history that anyone had _thanked_ Sherlock for a concise and dismissive summary of their lives and achievements. When he noticed their shocked stares, he flushed slightly in embarrassment and mumbled "I mean, well, for seeing that I'm the captain. People usually don't. And for saying that I looked the part too. Thanks."

In all the time that John had known him, this was quite possibly the first occasion that did not involve a naked dominatrix that left Sherlock Holmes utterly at a loss for words. He recovered quickly of course, nodding briskly in Martin's direction before returning to his work while John was still struggling to regain his mental footing.

_Well now, that was…unexpected._

Things were already not going quite the way that John had envisioned them, but there was nothing for it but to press ahead and hope that Sherlock would stick to the plan that John had sketched out. That hope was seeming more and more feeble by the second however, and so with what he could only pray was a meaningful look John said, "Anyway Sherlock, I'm here now. What did you need me for?"

"Hmm?" Sherlock asked, distracted by his microscope again. "Oh yes, I was a delicate stage of my work and needed your help holding a flask steady for me. Of course it took you a year to get here, so the moment is long past and I was forced to muddle through. Alone." It should not have been possible for a man in his thirties to sound so much like a petulant child, but it seemed that the universe was not interested in conforming to what was possible or expected today.

Thankfully for the state of John's sanity and blood pressure, Sherlock's flimsy pretense to get him to come to the lab was just that, but that did not mean he could not feign the annoyed incredulity he had experienced on many other occasions unsettlingly similar to this one."I…you _actually_ brought me over here to hold a _flask_?" he spluttered.

"Both my hands were required for more important things," Sherlock said.

"I absolutely cannot believe you – you had a hand free to text me with you git! And you couldn't just get someone who was, I don't know, _here_ to do it for you?"

"I tried shouting for Molly, repeatedly, but she never came. Apparently she had more _important_ things to do." The disdain in Sherlock's voice at the thought that Molly could possibly be doing anything more important while at work than helping him with his unpaid investigation was palpable. "I shouted for her again just before you got here since it seemed that you would never arrive and I need a second pair of hands once again, but there is still no sign of her. Would you?"

Sighing heavily in resignation, John walked over to the table and held out his hand for whatever offending item needed his crucial support. "Will this take very long? It's just that if it will, Martin will probably want to find something else to do on his day off than just hang around here while we work."

Sherlock looked up briefly to level an admonishing glare in John's direction, offended that his work would be so questioned by John even considering doing anything else with his day other than standing around acting as a human shelf for his equipment. "John, we have a very limited window of time to find the painting before it leaves the country. Probability says that stolen art enters the international black market within 48 hours of being taken, and once it does it will be nearly impossible to track. Time is of the essence."

"Alright, alright, I get it. This is important." John looked over to Martin to shrug regretfully and mouth a silent "Sorry", but his apology was interrupted by the entrance of the final piece of John's plan – one Molly Hooper.

The pathologist to whom they owed their ability to use the Barts' laboratories as their personal playground bustled into the room in a distracted rush, smoothing down both her hair and her lab coat in an attempt to appear anything but harried by the impossible man who had called for her. She nearly bowled Martin over where he stood by the door of the lab she was so intent on hurrying over to where Sherlock was sitting, but while Martin was left staring in wonder at the woman who practically ran past him Molly had barely noticed him at all. Covertly surveying Martin's reaction to Molly, John could see that it was just as he had expected and hoped. The poor man looked rather like he'd been punched in the gut, all of the wind knocked out of him at once as he stared at Molly with wide eyes and no subtlety whatsoever. Fortunately, and unfortunately, for him, all of Molly's attention was squarely on Sherlock, whose only acknowledgement of her was a quick glance in her direction.

"Alright Sherlock, I'm here," she said breathlessly. "Sorry about the wait, I was in the middle of working on a patient when you were texting, and calling, and…shouting."

"Molly, your patients are _dead_, being left for a few more minutes won't exactly do them any harm. You couldn't just leave them for a moment when I needed you?"

"No, Sherlock, I couldn't. I do have a job that's not just fetching and carrying stuff for you, you know."

"I didn't need you to fetch anything, I needed you to hold something. Something important, but it's too late for that now. John, why is it so impossibly hard to find one person who will be there whenever I need them to be?"

"Because you're an insufferable git?"

This of course earned an irritated _harrumph_ in reply from Sherlock, but John was glad to see a small smile from Molly that she did her best to hide and failed rather spectacularly at doing so. Martin however was still standing on the fringes of the conversation, if a conversation it could really be termed when one of the participants insisted on speaking only in insults or angry noises, and it was clear from his not-so-covert stares that Martin was more than interested in being introduced to Molly. Smothering a triumphant grin, John summoned his best look of chagrin and said, "Oh right, I'm so bad at this, I almost forgot to introduce everyone. Martin, this is Molly Hooper, she works here in the hospital and lends us a hand in the lab sometimes when we need it. She's a huge help."

Molly smiled happily, standing the tiniest bit straighter under his praise and the well-deserved recognition, but Sherlock's _hmph_ from the lab table seconds later caused her to deflate instantly.

"A huge help? You know what would have been a help Molly? If you'd been here when you would have actually been useful instead of distracting me while I try to concentrate." He shot her an angry glare, causing her to draw back in surprised hurt.

"I…I told you, I was busy with –" she stammered, trying to regain her bearings.

Sherlock continued on as though she hadn't said a word, ignoring her protest entirely."Or perhaps if you _truly_ wanted to be useful, you would have bothered giving me a single text this entire week instead of letting me _rot_ with boredom."

"But Sherlock –" Molly tried to interject into his tirade, eyes wide with hurt and surprise.

"Oh don't even try to tell me there wasn't anything for me to do, there had to be at least a couple of old people who kicked the proverbial bucket in the heat. No, you didn't even bother. So much for being _helpful._"

John had no idea where Sherlock was going with this, but he couldn't stand by and watch this go on any longer. Even if he had asked Sherlock to help, if helping was really what the arse thought he was doing right now, this was much too far. "Come off it Sherlock, you're being ridiculous."

Poor Molly looked nearly on the verge of tears as she shrank further into herself, nearly whispering, "Sherlock, you know that's not fair, I –"

"Fair?" Sherlock spat, scorn dripping off of every word he said. "The world isn't fair Molly, you of all people should know that by now."

"Hey!"

Martin's sudden shout brought immediate silence to the lab. Three heads swiveled to look at him in surprise, his presence having gone unremembered for the last several minutes as he stood on the sidelines of the conversation that had escalated so quickly into an argument. But he was not forgotten now, not when every eye was fixed on him and the angry glare he was leveling at Sherlock. "Leave off her, you're being ridiculous! She's obviously doing you a favor just by being here when she has loads of other stuff to do, you don't need to be so rude about it. And if she really is your friend like you say she is then you shouldn't ever speak to her like that."

John could not have been more shocked if Martin had hit him over the head with a brick. In all the years that they had been friends, out of all the strange and difficult experiences they had shared together, John had never seen Martin react to a situation with such force before. To speak out like that in an unfamiliar situation, to admonish a person he had only just met, not to mention a person who routinely intimidated some of the most dangerous criminals in London, it was utterly unlike the Martin that John had thought that he knew so well. But even now that everyone was staring at him, Martin had not backed down an inch as he continued to glare angrily at Sherlock. Had he really changed that much in the last few years?

Apparently he had, far more than John could have ever anticipated. He held Sherlock's gaze steadily, meeting his scrutiny with what could only be called a challenge to say something else. After a moment of shocked silence that seemed to last a lifetime, Sherlock nodded curtly before turning towards Molly.

"I'm sorry, Molly. I was rude," he said quietly, apologizing with the honest sincerity that John had heard only once before and still could not quite believe.

Molly seemed just as astonished now as she had the last time Sherlock had repented for his actions, although thankfully there was no embarrassing interruption to spoil the moment."It's…fine. Don't worry about it."

Silence fell once more. The three occupants of the laboratory who were capable of embarrassment in awkward social situations shifted nervously, unsure of how to proceed after Martin's sudden and unexpected act of gallantry and Sherlock's uncharacteristic apology. John's original idea of simply getting Martin and Molly in a room together and encouraging conversation between them by now seemed both entirely out of reach and hilariously underdeveloped, as he could never have imagined this turn of events. But as luck would have it the awkwardness did not continue for long, as the silence was soon broken by the sudden chime of Sherlock's phone and the slight jump of surprise it caused in everyone who was not Sherlock himself.

Fishing his phone out of his pocket at lightning speed, Sherlock scanned the message with single-minded focus that quickly shifted into an angry frown."It's Lestrade. They found the missing curator dead in his apartment – oh _of course_. Of course, how could I have missed it? Come on John, we need to get there before they ruin the scene."

In the blink of an eye his phone was stowed back in his trouser pocket and he was leaping into action, grabbing his coat and scarf from where they lay on the counter behind him and practically running out of the lab without even bothering to check that John was following him. This turn of events was certainly _not_ part of the plan that had been completely derailed, but John saw nothing for it but to follow Sherlock along to the crime scene. If he remembered right this was the day of the week when nearly all of the Yarders who wanted Sherlock's head on a platter were on duty, and John was afraid that if he didn't come along and mitigate the damage Sherlock could very well find himself landed in jail for obstruction of justice and annoying the bloody daylights out of a police officer. Lestrade would do his best to keep the peace of course, but with the mood that Sherlock was apparently in today it wouldn't be enough.

Heading over towards the door that Sherlock had already exited, John stopped briefly in front of Martin and hesitated slightly before saying with regret, "Martin, I'm _so_ sorry, but he really does need me this time. I really am sorry about this."

But Martin simply smiled faintly, no anger or annoyance in his face despite everything that had happened in the last few minutes. "It's fine John, really. You're busy, I understand," he said.

"I feel terrible though, I feel like I'm ruining your day off."

The lab door banged back open suddenly as Sherlock leaned into the room, frowning in frustration at John's slowness and eyes already alight with the joy of the game being on once more. He surveyed the scene quickly before looking over at where Molly was standing in bewildered confusion.

"Molly, keep an on eye him, will you?" he asked brusquely.

She looked at him blankly before realizing what was being asked of her. "I…sure," she responded, still not quite keeping up with the rapid progression of events.

"Good," Sherlock said decisively, already turning to race out of the lab once more. "Come _on_ John, the forensics team is probably already on their way and if they get there first we'll never find anything useful."

But John hesitated still, torn by indecision and guilt thanks to how spectacularly wrong his plan had gone."Martin?"

"I'm fine, John. Don't worry about me, just go. I'll talk to you later if I'm still in London when you're free."

"You'd better. Take care, Martin. Bye." And with that John dashed out of the lab in pursuit of Sherlock, jogging down the hallway to catch him before the idiot jumped in a cab and left him behind entirely.

"Sherlock, what the _hell_ was that about? You ruined everything!"

"Did I, John?"

"Of course you did! You didn't stick to the plan at all, and you were such a colossal prick to Molly I'm surprised she didn't punch you for it. What's wrong with you?"

"You know, you really must learn to trust me."

"Trust you? Why should I when I can't even rely on you to follow simple instructions?"

"Your instructions were idiotic. For the last time, _trust_ me – I promise that you'll be glad that you did. Now shut up and get in the cab, I will never forgive you if Anderson gets to the scene before we do."

The crash of the closing door left echoing silence in its wake. Martin fidgeted uncomfortably, head still spinning from the whirlwind of finally meeting Sherlock, being introduced to one of the most beautiful women he'd ever seen, _yelling_ at Sherlock in defense of said woman, and then watching John dash out the door all in the space of a few minutes. Adrenaline was still pumping through him thanks to his ridiculous admonishment of John's flatmate, an action he had not even thought about before he found himself scolding someone he had met only moments before. The words had seemed to spring out of nowhere, but they felt so right that he had not even stuttered once as he was speaking. And to his even greater surprise, Sherlock had _apologized_, something that from the brief accounts of the man he had heard so far seemed to be a bit of a minor miracle. Molly certainly looked as though she had just witnessed the impossible, and her gaze was fixed on him now with far more attention and appraisal than she had given him earlier. In truth it was making Martin a bit uncomfortable to be under such close scrutiny from such a pretty woman, but he did his best to limit his fidgeting and retain the confidence that had appeared so suddenly earlier.

Finally Molly smiled warmly, sending a thrill of excitement through Martin that made him shiver."Thank you for standing up for me like that," she said quietly. "I…I don't think many people would."

"Oh, um, of course," Martin said with a blush, looking down at the floor quickly in the hope that she wouldn't notice. "It wasn't a big deal, really. I just, I guess I know what it's like to get pushed around and it's not very fun."

"Yeah, it's really not. I mean, Sherlock's not a bad person or anything, don't think that about him, he just gets a little…strange when there's a case on sometimes. Very, um, focused."

"Right, I could see that," Martin said, not at all sure that he did. "Still, he should be nicer to you. You don't deserve to be spoken to like that."

This earned another smile from Molly, even wider than the last that made Martin's breath catch in his throat. "Thank you."

Was he imagining things? Was there really a gleam of what could possibly be…_hope_ in Molly's eyes? Surely not, Martin was never that lucky. Surely Molly would never hope for anything from a man like him when there was someone like Sherlock in her life, someone who was handsome and brilliant beyond measure. No, the only reason she had even noticed him was because he had been ridiculous enough to get involved in a conversation and a matter that was none of his business.

But there was no denying the smile that was still on her face now as she looked at him, and the warmth of her thanks, and the interest she was paying him long after most women had passed him by in disgust. Could this day really be that lucky, that blessed, that improbably perfect? There was only way to know, and today of all days when his fortunes were lining up as they never had before seemed to be the one to find out. Even if the prospect did scare him half to death.

Summoning his courage, Martin took a deep breath, sent a prayer to whoever was listening, and took the plunge. "I was wondering, if you had the time, would you like some coffee?"

Molly's blank look in response to his nervous question nearly stopped his heart. "Um, I actually just had some coffee but there's a pot down the hall if you…oh!" She broke off suddenly, confusion written all over her face as Martin's face fell.

"Of course, you've got so much work and you're obviously busy, that was stupid of me to ask, I'm sorry –"

"No no!" Molly interrupted his stammers, a slight blush tingeing her cheeks as well. "I'm so sorry, I didn't understand your question. I – well I'm used to dealing with Sherlock and he's usually asking me to go get coffee _for _him. Did you mean…did you mean that you want to get coffee together?"

By now Martin's blush had long since stopped being faint and had taken over his entire face, and he wanted nothing more than to sink through the floor and disappear forever. He stared down at the floor in embarrassment, voice sinking lower and lower with every word that he spoke. "I – yes I did. But I know that you're so busy and all, forget that I asked. It was stupid of me. Forget it."

"You know come to think of it, it's just about lunchtime, and it's really been…quite a day already, so I think a break is just what the doctor ordered."

_What? Really?_ Looking up in surprise, Martin felt his heart nearly stop to see the happy smile lighting up Molly's face that caused his heart to leap into his throat.

"I'd love to get coffee with you."

The smile that bloomed on Martin's face threatened to crack it in two, but he could hardly bring himself to care how foolish he might look. "Brilliant," he said, and for the first time he meant it with all his heart.

Martin held the door open for Molly, and as he exited the morgue to journey out of the hospital into the early afternoon sun there was not a trace of sadness to be seen on a face shining bright with happy anticipation.

* * *

><p>AN: Writing this story has been one of the most difficult and most rewarding things that I have ever done. I honestly never expected that what I thought would be a relatively simple story of a few chapters to grow into something this long, but I am very glad that it did and that everyone has stuck along for the ride. I have to give huge thanks to everyone who helped me out as I tried to figure out just what on earth I was writing and acted as a sounding board for me - Joan, Kristine, and Sarah you have all been more of a help than I can say and I thank you so much. And Lexie, my endlessly patient beta, this story probably wouldn't even be finished without you, much less half as good as it is. Additional thanks goes to Devin at .com for providing the wonderful cover, something that was both an incredible surprise and a huge honor.  
>Thank you everyone for reading.<p> 


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